Either fashion has an extremely quick turnover rate, or I'm stuck in a very bizarre, and not a little scary, time warp. Allow me to explain. This weekend, I saw things that I thought only happened - nay, that should only ever happen off Broadway, in a production of Hairspray that would make John Waters have a tiny orgasm. Beehives that had so much Elnett in them that I could feel the ozone hole widen in sheer awe, female mullets that would make the most fashion-conscious of East-German football players green with envy, and the colours, sweet baby Vidal, the colours. Platinum blonde with black and purple highlights all together on one head? I'm lost for words. I want to believe, honestly I do, that somewhere, a well-intentioned hairdresser did that without snickering, but you see, this close to Christmas, my whole belief system is already stretched to bursting.
And the crux of the matter here - because my whole life is but a series of ordeals all happening in rapid succession - is that I know my own hair desperately needs attending to, but the idea of getting something even remotely close to a platinum-and-purple mullet beehive - and let's face it, we all know that with the type of luck I've been enjoying lately, this is exactly what I might end up with - fills me with dread. It's OK, I'll just keep my thatch of longish, lank, nondescript but predominantly mousy strands until capillary trends are back to, at the very least, short and curly on top.