About six weeks ago I did the unthinkable.
I coloured my own hair.
Although I used to do this all the time when I was in my twenties, since getting older and running out of melatonin, it's become a job for a true professional.
The man who touches and retouches me like no other, is Harley.
Through blonde, brunette and redhead, Harley has been there saying "hmmm...do you think that's wise?"
So it was with fear, trembling and no end of shame, that I entered the salon, knowing Harley would take one look at my home coloured tresses and realise I had been unfaithful.
That I had done it without him, strayed.
I sat down and looked into the mirror at our reflections as Harley lifted my brassy gold (with a touch of green) hair, looking for all the world like he wanted some hand sanitiser.
Our eyes met and he said,"did you do this yourself?"
"Nooooo", I said, nodding guiltily.
He sighed a deep, frustrated sigh, a sigh that spoke of years of devotion that had been thrown away in an afternoon of rushed root-covering.
"We can fix this", Harley said, "unless you want it to remain this colour?"
"No. That would be great. Another colour. Any colour but this. Please".
I think it was the plaintive "please", that turned his icy demeanor back to the laughing confidante I know so well.
And so it was that three hours, multiple foils, another colour, wash, rinse, blow dry and haircut later that I emerged - the brassy moth had become the highlighted butterfly.
I am complete.