Going brunette

The end of a relationship hairstyle change took longer than normal this turn round. Oh yes, I've learnt, none of this it's all over so I'll make myself look rubbish with a style that suits Demi but makes me haggard nonsense. No siree. It's only now, nine months after the official parting, that my official parting (albeit a round about the middle, not sought out with a comb, version), has finally changed colour.

Mum decided Sunday afternoon, without so much as a medicinal glass of vino inside her, that she fancied being the family hairdresser. Her hubby told her that she could piss off if she thought she was getting her claws in his barnet. Sensible enough, you may say, were it not for the fact his barnet is grey, receding, and hardly haute couture. Personally 'not very supportive' was what went through my brain. Much as I'd love to say it was this thought that prompted me to throw myself in, all benevolent volunteer to the salvation of damaged pride fashion, it wasn't. I'd decided I wanted to go natural for autumn, this thought started the whole, hardly domestic strife of any magnitude, off in the first place.

Half an hour later we're in Sainsubry's. Mum's urging me to wait a while until we found a semi-permanent solution, went by in vain, but should have alerted me to the crisis in her own ability, to follow. I'd made a decision. Not only that. I'd learnt from the Morticia from the munsters, deep brown decision of previous winters, and gone a shade lighter.

A couple of hours down the track Mum was saying stuff like 'you do know don't you it won't be one colour?'. No, I didn't know. One colour, my natural, was the original intention, but dutifully prompted, I revised my expectations. Little choice really, the stuff was burning a hole in my scalp and, washing it off only five minutes in, to have mud meets blonde, hardly seemed alluring.

'It won't look professional, you need to go to a salon for that' Mum piped up hardly a second later. Resisting the temptation to say 'why on earth didn't we have these conversations earlier' I stoically readjusted the shower cap and through barely clenched teeth, smiled. I was beginning to think hubby had a point. I was beginning to doubt the family hairdresser idea. Actually, truth be told, by this point, I was right off it.

'Boring brown' was the favoured description yet five more minutes in. 'What colour are you going Julie? ' asked step-dad 'boring brown' apparently the answer, from a mother who, I was learning, had some sales skills to hone.

I'm omitting much of the tussling with the hairbrush and hysterical laughter that followed at this point. Mum reads this, I adore her, some things are best kept between us.

I'd love to climax on some story, equivalent to the time Sam, much more than half cut, decided to do my highlights... Not because my wallet or self esteem would enjoy a repeat of that experience, but because, from a pure writing point of view, it would serve a purpose. Happily, or sadly, depending on the degree of sado-Masochism with which you read this, it all turned out rather well. Step-Dad's comments that I looked 'respectable' was not exactly what I'd been after, but with a vat of make up and cleavage showcasing tops, I've been able to mitigate that particular charge.

More optimistically, I adore my new barnet. It is, amazingly, all one colour, only with natural looking shiny highlighted bits coming out, and, less amazingly if you actually know my mum, doesn't look salon done, but only cos you wouldn't know it was done at all.

So much so that I even had to ask my housemates what they thought, they'd been fixating on my skirt wondering what looked different.

I notice it though, every time I get in a lift, and in stark contrast to all previous post relationship hairdos it has the perfect impact. Makes me feel fabulous and all Demi Moore, minus of course, the surgery / waist line / part in Charlie's Angels. But hey, who needs it when they have a family hairdresser?