LAST week, I was sitting patiently in the hairdresser's and things weren't going well.

True, the dye they were smearing on my hair was purple and smelt like paint stripper, but I couldn't really complain - and that was the problem.

If anyone could have seen into my mind on that particular Saturday, they would have seen a scheming brain working over-time, trying to pull imperfections out of thin air and wondering what was the best way to slate my new hairdo in this column.

Things were getting so bad/good that I began, even, to wonder whether I could possibly write a whole 400 words on the merits of putting your trust in a lady with hair of very dubious structure, and paying a small fortune for the privilege.

But luckily, readers, you can breathe a sigh of relief - things in the salon took a downturn when I politely joked with my 'colourist' that my hair might stay violet.

"Oh no," she cheerfully replied. "It'll be about my colour."

Now I'm not certain, but I think the small, choked-sounding scream I let out after hearing this information was at the same time that the salon decided it fitting to ruin my hair, and subsequently I decided on the subject of this column.

When I sat down to get my Pamela-Anderson-would-be-proud-coloured, texture-of-processed-cheese hair cut, I thought things couldn't get much worse. For the minimum extra damage, I told my 'stylist' that just an inch or so off would be fine.

And so it began. Obviously, the poor dear must have thought I said an inch or two off from my scalp and started, with great pride, to turn my hair from a non-descript blond mop into a Rita-from-Corrie-esque beehive with sufficient lacquer to warrant me having the emergency services number on quick dial in my mobile.

No doubt all of the savvy, confident, 'sure of my consumer rights' people reading this will be screaming at me for not quietly suggesting that a hairdo with more volume than the rest of my body wasn't quite my cup of tea, but by that time my only rational thought was to leave my stylist and her manic scissors as soon as possible.

My only consolation after the whole affair was that I would have a good story to write about - one that has been very therapeutic, from under the shade of the baseball cap that has been firmly plastered onto my head since I dared to venture out with my friends the day after the cut.

"Oh dear," I was greeted with.

"What's 'oh dear'? The bouffant nest, or the yellow highlighter colour?"

"Oh right, hadn't noticed that yet... but I saw the tuft from across the road - is it supposed to be there?" was the reply.

The proceeds of this column are going on industrial strength hair gel.

Updated: 10:22 Wednesday, February 25, 2004