I dyed this morning. And it’s Guy’s fault.
You see, last Sunday I was sprawled on the sitting room floor reading The Times Book Review when Guy sauntered in trailing a couple of acres of grass clippings across the freshly vacuumed carpet.
“Are you making coffee?” he asked.
“No,” I replied tersely. “If you look closely, you’ll see I’m reading the paper.”
There was a momentary silence and then this.
“You’ve got 7 grey hairs.” Guy announced and flounced off in a manly way to the kitchen.
Cut to supermarket ‘Hair Care’ aisle and me standing in stupefied amazement as I gape open-mouthed at three and a half million hair-colour products.
“Lord love a duck,” I muttered and strode bravely forth to investigate.
I won’t bore you with the details but suffice it to say that after long hours of deliberation, I chose a Penelope Cruz look-alike in the vain hope that Woody Allen would cast me in a sequel to Vicky Cristina Barcelona. Then I can leave Guy and his grass clipping and date George Clooney instead.
And speaking of vanity, I will most certainly not be venturing out today – possibly not ever again. Not with my brunette ears and a stain the size of an enormous birthmark which trails down from my hairline to my right eyebrow. Even my t-shirt looks like it has been pooped on by a flock of birds. So that will have to be binned. To add insult to injury, my left pinkie finger looks as though it should be amputated because that, too, has turned dark brown. Obviously one of those hand-shaped condoms they supply you with had a leak.
All this…this…trauma! All in the name of vanity and 7 grey hairs.
Is it worth it?
All together now…………NO!
Instead of sitting at home sulking with my brunette ears and a finger, I'm going to practise my Diski Dance. Care to join me?