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Without a doubt a woman’s crowing glory is her hair, so it should come as no surprise when I tell you that touching my hair for even the teeniest moment in time will probably end in your death. I could write a book on the pain and suffering I’ve encountered with family and hairdressers over the years. I’m actually starting to wonder if this is my penance for something I did in a previous life.

When I was but a mere child – don’t worry this isn’t going to be a Monty Python sketch of hardship, woe and shoes held together with string - my Grandfather, who I should add was a London Bus Driver and not a Hairdresser, thought it was his responsibility to cut my hair. Why he thought this, well I will never know. But I can vaguely remember him appearing with a pair of scissors, wielding them in the direction of my hair, waiting for my Grandmother to tie a towel around my neck to catch my falling tresses, oblivious to my sniffling and monumental build up of tears.

Never daring to utter a word of resistance, the end result was the hideously unfashionable pudding basin look that did nothing for my, shall we say plumpish, figure, other than to leave me resembling a boy; a fact that was devastatingly confirmed during a family fishing trip.

Finding ourselves trapped by the sea, my Dad, brother and I found ourselves in the precarious position of desperately needing help. Thankfully a passer by saw our predicament and offered his assistance. Leaving my brother under strict instructions to not move an inch, Dad grabbed me and headed for safety. Now I would like to end this off with a “this man will be in my prayers for ever more, and is noted in my will for financial gains for saving my life,” but no, I’d actually like to track him down and yank his hair out with my bare hands. For as he stretched out to extract me to safety he called out to my Dad “pass over the little boy”. Suffice to say tears of happiness were not forthcoming that day.

Jumping ahead several years, to the vulnerable time of being a new wife and mother, a time when I wanted to look good for my man. I joyfully went in search of somebody to entrust my hair to. Finding a trendy salon close to home, I handed over my hair to a stylist who decided she’d take her personal frustrations out on it. Every time I walked out of that Salon I left with the classic Bob that didn’t suit me, but even worst was the coiffed fringe that defied gravity. She seemed to find it amusing to send me off into a crowded shopping centre with a bird’s nest perched on my forehead, when I had specifically requested a flat fringe. The woman was a sadomasochist.

It was humiliating. I used to charge home and stick my head under the tap before frantically drying my fringe flat. Pulling at my short fringe with enough force to warrant therapy for inflicting pain on myself. You’d think I’d stop going back there wouldn’t you? Huh, who are you kidding? I just seemed to keep going back for more, the eternal optimist, convinced I would get what I wanted in the end.

On another occasion, many, many years later, I went to have a quick trim of my already short hair, taking along a picture of the length I needed for my fringe. If my fringe gets too long, it parts naturally; leaving me looking like a theatre stage just after the curtain has been raised.

What a disaster. I came out looking like…well I don’t know what, it’s hard to describe. The man went berserk, cutting and thrashing my hair into some kind of style that I’d never have requested in a million years. I swear he used a can of mousse to keep all the remaining bits in place, which I hasten to add, looked as if they weren’t really attached to my head anymore.

Feeling and looking like a complete zombie I had no option but to go back to work, when in fact all I wanted to do was go home, and not leave the safety of those four walls until my hair had grown back again. Arriving at my place of work I tried to sneak back behind my desk without being seen. I was not in luck that day. My colleague glanced up before summing the new style up for everybody around with a, “what the f%&# have you done to your hair?”

These days I try to keep my hair longish, the sort of no particular style, style, fully afraid of trying something new. The only bit I allow scissors to get close to is the fringe, the bit that has caused me numerous problems in the past. And even then I glare at the hairdresser, sitting tense in the chair, who must surely see the horns growing out of the top of my head.