I blame my mother's hairdresser. It was at her salon that I first experienced hair torture. There I was, twelve, lovely thick shiny straight hair, keen on pet mice and ponies and allergic to frocks and curls, and my mother sent me to her hairdresser.
"Just cut it, Sophie," she said strictly. "That's all. Just a plain cut," then off she went, leaving me alone and in danger.
"Never mind that plain-Jane-and-no-nonsense stuff," said Sophie cheerily to the assistant when the coast was clear. "Give her some nice curls." Wicked words. In went the curlers and setting lotion, then out came the blowdryer, then the pouffing up, twirling round, pulling, fiddling and twiddling for ages, until it was all finished and I looked like forty-year-old suburban Mrs Dull from Ruislip.
I don't believe I said anything. Paralysed with misery and shame, I was perhaps unable to. How would I ever look my friends, mice and dog in the fact again? I remained sullen until my Mother breezed in. She paid, she even said, "Thank you", and she led me to the car, where I screamed and cried bitterly and tore out the vile curls with my bare hands.
But my mother did not learn from this experience. Deep down, she longed for a girly daughter with curls. "Have and perm," she and her chums begged. "You're not making the most of yourself." And in the end, because by then I was fifteen and considering boys and frocks, I gave in.
What a huge mistake. The hair turned into dead parsley and stuck out vaguely in dull, brown, lumps. I crammed my black velour school hat over it but it still bulged out in frizzy wadges and I longed only to be bald. The word 'perm' is still poison to me.
