Hedgehogs are cute, right?

I should probably have known what was going to happen the minute the girl on the phone said she'd check if Lisa could squeeze me in.

For starters, who the hell is Lisa? Kate cuts my hair, or Becky, if Kate isn't free, I've never even heard of Lisa before, she could be some girl they've pulled in from the chippy over the road for all I know. Also 'squeeze me in'? There are times I don't mind being 'squeezed in', at a sold out gig perhaps, on the tube, a cheerleader's slumber party, but not a hairdressers, definitely not. The only pressure I want the cutter to be under is the pressure that my eyes, loaded with fear, places upon them to do a good job.

But I want it doing today and I'm in a good mood, so let it pass and decide to take the risk, half remembering some tosh about doing something every day that scares you.

Well, very soon, scared is truly what I become. These people in the salon, I've never seen any of them before, what are they doing here, where are the people I've slowly learned to trust over the last few years, what the hell is going on? I've no idea, as far as I'm concerned these women could just be keeping up appearances out front while some kind of hostage situation takes shape in the back. That wouldn't be good at all, not only would they not know what they were doing, they wouldn't care about how they left my head, they wouldn't care how I felt about it either, which is definitely a worry.

I considered running, but I'm far too English for that kind of reaction, so here we go, eyes closed, palms sweaty, heart beating, let's just get this over with. It's all good to start with, it always is, until that moment. We've all lived that moment, you might not see it actual happen, and often it's better you don't, because a yelp of horror isn't something you ever want somebody stood over you with scissors to hear from you, but at some point, you will become painfully aware that it has happened. Your gaze will return from wherever it had been hovering, to the mirror, to your own head, to the unmistakable evidence that the cutting has gone too far and that this is not going to be rescued, not by a long chalk.

Of course once this has happened there's nothing you can do, no point in complaining, just nod and smile when necessary, pay your money, go home, have a little cry, start the healing process, possibly by pouring Miracle-Gro in your shampoo and just hoping the fortunes smile kindly on you this time.

Those who know me well will know it well that I'm ever the optimist, and in this case there is no difference, and I will tell you now that there is a plus side to a poor haircut. When you're in the pub, and someone pretty across the room starts looking at you, you don't have to go through the whole insecurity regime, don't have to spend time trying to work out if they fancy you or not, if you should go over, if this is your chance, finally, for true love, or at least a fumble in the corner, because it isn't, they don't, they want to know what the hell you've got on your head. Which is great, you can just get on with your night, no worries, no pressures, nobody think you're attractive right now, so you may as well just get get drunk and have a laugh with your mates. Everybody is a winner.

I'm aware that paragraph was something of an example of straw-clutching, but life can so easily get you down if you let it, and sometimes a silver lining needs a bit of stitching if it's going to hang on.

Tonight is New Years Eve, I'm so very glad I look my best.