Hair-raising

My hair has gone Up. Not with fright, though it has had a very great fright indeed, and is now a cause of fright to others, particularly me. The application of a temporary hair colour, designed to enliven its muddy tones with a gentle golden glow, has turned it orange. So, in pure self-defence it has retreated to the top of my head, in a clip, where only the very tall can be alarmed by it.

Victorian girls put their hair up at 18 to signify adulthood. We modern gals tend to cut most of ours off as we hit our 50s, out of courtesy to others. There is nothing more depressing than walking behind a figure with flowing blonde hair, only to find on overtaking a wizened middle-aged face peeping out from under the golden mane. The back of one's head should reflect the worst of the front, so there are no unpleasant surprises.

Besides, if I wear my hair up, I won't have to have it cut for ages, which spares me the trauma of going to the hairdressers.

Other people fear dentists: I'd rather visit a dentist than a hairdresser any old time. There are limits to how daft a dentist can make you look. And its not as though they even try. Whereas hairdressers devote their lives to the gentle art of humiliation.

For a start, they drape you in an unflattering tent. Then thet sit you in a corner with a lot of magazines full of glamorous women who you could never possibly ressemble, make you feel completely inadequate.

They then wash your hair, backwards at an unnatural angle leaving you sprawling at paralysed on your back, your throat temptingl exposed to potential Sweeney Todds. They then sit you in front of a mirror in an unflattering light, looking like a drowned rat, and ask you why you are there. Well may they.

At this point, too unnerved to produce my hopeful picture of Joanna Lumley, I mutter something about a trim. Negotiations about fractions of an inch talk of layering and body ensue, though we both know that the hairdresser will do exactly what she feels like when the time comes, and I will be too cowed to stop he.

Meanwhile, an assistant produces a cup of excellent coffee, which I can't actually reach to drink as The Cutting has begun and I'm not allowed to move my head in my hairstyle starts listing to one side, like the Titanic. I am, however, treated to a catachism on the subject of my personal life. Where do I intend to unveil the glory that will be my new haircut? Am I going to a party? No, I am going to sit at home with a large bag of nachos and a selection of dips, watching telly. So naturally I lie, whilst trying to change the subject to the hairdresser's own personal life, about which I couldn't care less but which should demand minimum response on my part.

Eventually, after each hair is individually blow-dried, a process that will not happen again until The Next Time in a mirror which is flourished, I am asked to admire the resulting smooth, disciplined, unflattering helmet from behind. Coward that I am, I pretend to be pleased, then make my escape as soon as possible and scuttle, head bowed for anonymity, back to privacy of home, where I can wash my hair until I look less like a hairdresser and more like me.

And I console myself with the thought that in three months or so it will have grown back to normal. And in four months, optimism will again triumph over experience, and I'll be back clutching my picture of Joanna Lumley to go through it all again.

So, my hair is now Up, and out of range. I am safe. The worst ordeal I need face is a half hour in the dentist's chair with someone who doesn't expect conversation, admiration, or any degree of enthusiasm on my part. And who gives me a nice glass of flourescent pink water which I am actually allowed to drink.