I get it. We get older and things change. I find I now come with sound effects and every time I move I make a noise. It’s either a creak, a groan or a fart.

We get wrinkles but I appreciate the privilege of getting them, as so many people don’t get that chance.

And we get a bit of middle aged spread so we try and fight it, and go through fazes of not eating carbs and living in the gym, or thinking screw it, and pouring a glass of wine.

And then we have our hair. Our “crowning glory” as it’s called. Some men keep their luxurious locks but most don’t, they shave it all off and invariably look fantastic. Like a variety of Jason Stathams or The Rocks. But, you know. With a bit of a Dad Bod going on.

And then you have women. Ahh. Women in the menopause and their hair. Once upon a time we could swish our way out of trouble with a mere swipe of red lipstick and our blow dried manes.

But it gets thin. It falls out. It changes colour. It recedes. Our previous, signature hair style no longer works because a comb over is never a good look however much industrial strength lacquer you layer on to keep it in check.

And so you start to obsess over haircuts. Pinterest gives you fabulous ideas and you make a hair appointment, giddy with excitement that this will be “the one”. Your new hair style and colour that will allow you to march head first into the next stage of life looking epic. And toned and fabulous, because obviously a good haircut is like spending a year in the gym. You just look EPIC. Loyalty knows no bounds like a woman with a good stylist.

And that’s where it can go  wrong. You have to change hairdresser for whatever reason. The only reasonable one being death. Yours or the hairdressers. And after background research that would put MI5 to shame, you change salons.

And then it happens. You get The Bad Haircut. And if you have been really bad in a previous life, you get a really bad colour too. And after 3 hours of sitting in the chair getting increasingly nervous because no appointment has ever taken this long before, they do their grand reveal.

And it looks turbo shite. Not just turbo shite, but turbo shite with bells and whistles on. You look in the mirror and put your glasses on, because the stylist and their partner in crime are so in awe of what an amazing job they have done, you are certain they must be talking about someone else. Because in the mirror looking right back at you, but in the same clothes you are wearing is a wonky haired orange striped zebra.

But no. They are both stood around you, cooing over their brilliance, running their fingers through your hair and then curling it, even though you don’t recall ever asking for an 80’s era tight curl.

In a state of shock you smile, thank them and pay an obscene amount of money that is twice what was quoted. You even round it up to leave a tip, because for some reason we tip hairdressers even though, per hour they earn more than a brain surgeon.

You then go home, pour wine and cry. And buy a wig. So if you see me from now on with amazing hair, just ask and I’ll send you the link. I am DONE being held hostage by hostile hairdressers. I shall be the proud owner of luxurious locks once more. Which I shall swish aggressively in anyone’s face who dares to comment…