AT last, I have something in common with the beautiful A-listers!
Yippee! In the excellent company of Jennifer Aniston, Madonna and Lady Gaga I am in the acute grip of ... blondarexia.
This tragic condition is centred on the belief that your barnet can only be improved by more bleaching.
Condition be dammed – make me blonde at any cost!
Without the wisdom of the Daily Mail website I would never have known, but Thank God I am now fully aware of what’s wrong with me and the correct terminology.
My saviour through this difficult time has been my hairdresser, lovely Sarah.
Every time I go to see her I plead ‘lighter, brighter, more blonde please!’ To which she smiles very kindly, ignores me, and puts in some beautiful lowlights to stop me from looking like Myra Hindley.
After harbouring a great deal of resentment at her overiding my wishes I, now see the error of my ways.
I thought she was trying to thwart me, but now I see she only wanted me to look normal.
If only Jen, Madge and Gaga had been so lucky.
Mind you, I’m not sure there’s a hairdresser in the world with big enough cahoonas to stand up to these heavy hitters.
I certainly wouldn’t. I’d rather paint bleach onto my eyeballs than withold it from Madonna.
Anyhow, it seems my quest for blonder hair is just the tip of the iceberg.
The false eyelashes, fake tan and lavish eyeshadows have made a comeback at Goulding Towers.
Rattled by the recent spate of beauty competitions in our paper I’ve decided it’s time to make more of myself.
I go through these phases most years (which involves googling Harley Street boob jobs* and reading Grazia) and they never seem to last.
Probably because they don’t make a great deal of difference, and after a while even I can tell there’s not a massive payoff for all the effort.
My dad always used to say you were either born as a Rolls Royce or a Cortina.
You can look after (or not look after) either, but the fundamentals remain the same.
I like to think of myself as a Ford Fiesta – somewhere in the middle.
Still, a change is as good as a rest, and as long as I feel the need to turn myself into the Cuprinol doll then I shall do so.
I know myself well enough now to realise that resistence to these flights of fancy is futile and only postpones the inevitable.
In the meantime, I’m safe in the knowledge that dear Sarah will continue to ignore me and in doing so, stop my hair from falling out.
* Don’t panic, mum, I promise not to get a boob job. I like the idea, but in real life they look grim.