Blonde's Eye View: Committing mane adultery
Angela Clarke breaks the bond of trust and tress. And pays the price
I've been cheating. On my hairdresser. It was a total emergency.
A one-off catastrophic root re-growth disaster, and my stylist was on holiday.
I thought about fashioning a series of hats out of plastic bags to last me till she returned, but I couldn't be bothered.
Who knew 'I can't come into the office my roots need doing' is not a valid excuse for missing work?
I thought about all the good times my hairdresser and I have shared: the gossip, the consolation and the champagne (I go to that kind of salon). Then I thought, sod it!
If she can swan off to Thailand during my time of follicle need, she can swivel on one of those little stools hairdressers always have. And I booked to see someone else.
I felt guilty. I can go out for dinner with a man who isn't my husband and feel nothing, but let someone other than my hairdresser run a comb through my hair and I need counselling. I need to confess. I have committed mane adultery.
I sat and sweated when the imposter put in the foils. I lied when he asked if I was going anywhere nice this year. I said no to the complimentary glass of champagne.
The bond between a highlighted-woman and her hairdresser is strong. As unbreakable as all the shampoo adverts promise your hair will be. Messing with it violates the ancient hair dye code.
I paid the price. And not just the exorbitant price it costs to get a half head of highlights and a cut and finish nowadays. My temporary hairdresser, my stand-in-Barnet-fluffer, cocked my colour up.
It's white straw. It crackles if you touch it. I've booked an appointment with my stylist on her first day back. Penance.
Find Angela on twitter: @TheAngelaClarke