W, C and BD

That's what I've got an appointment for at 6pm - a wash, cut and blow dry. Amanda scrawled it into her appointment book alongside someone called Marina who's having a "C, P, W, C" at half six. I'm dying to find out exactly what that means.

It's time I had my hair cut to be honest. I can't see out from under my fringe, my once carefully cultivated locks with the little kink and curl are now resembling Worzel Gummidge and would rival Medusa's hair do for unruliness. And going out in the wind is impossible - strands of hair in my mouth, temporarily blinded and small children running away screaming.

I'm growing it to loosely resemble Rachel in Friends - Series 2/3 - as I've been told that it suits me. I've tried, in the past, a Posh Spice Bob, having it razored, having it feathered, having it chopped. Whatever Amanda at Shear Class does with it, it looks beautiful for about two days and then regresses to a mop. But a girl's got to try hasn't she?

Mac likes my hair, when he's having a snuggly moment he winds bits of it round his fingers idly. David says my hair is bouncy and likes stroking it in an oddly "there's a good girl, have a choc drop" kind of way. I must admit I do like having my hair fiddled with. I can go into trances when I'm having my (cough-cough) natural highlights put in - especially when Toni washes it all out. My toes are twiddling with delight even as I type!

So, I'm sitting here now typing this, great wodges of hair falling across my face and hooked unsuccessfully behind my ears - but in little under three hours I will be glam and bouncy and sleek and shiny and, although never directly mistaken for Jennifer Aniston as she was at the end of the 90s, I'll feel pretty damn good!