One of the few features which I like about myself is my hair. It has served me well throughout the years, providing as it does my personal curtain to protect me from the world (and vice versa).

Inevitably though, being both a woman – where hair wanted is the exact opposite of hair possessed - and an anxious one to boot, the hair is of course just not good enough. It’s too fine. The number of times I’ve had a hairdresser say, with a smile: “Your hair is very fine, but you’ve got a lots of it”. Thank you. And this helps me how?

Whilst they admire and seek to enhance its shiny sleekness, I can’t wait to get home, smother it in mousse, tip my head upside down and give it the full force of the 2000 watt hairdryer in a desperate attempt to create some semblance of body. Only to find that, 10 minutes later, it will have returned to its default, lifeless state. And so the cycle repeats, every morning.

Colour-wise, I’ve tinkered about with it a few times, usually plumping for an all-over shade (limited by the number of shades which will actually show up on my hair – being bluey-black, browny-black or plummy-black).

In recent years, I’ve experimented with highlights to try and shed my "trying-to-be-a-goth" label, but after the initial flurry of excitement, this has tended to leave me with what I shall name the "Jaffa Cake" effect – layers of chocolate-coloured hair interspersed with what can only be described as "orangey bits". As the highlighted sections progressed inevitably downwards, I moved on to the "Duracell" effect, resplendent with my blackish roots and copper-coloured ends, an effect which has been exacerbated by the bleaching effect of the sun.

Frankly, readers, I had to sort it out. This weekend, armed only with Garnier Movida, I ended the reign of terror of the orange bits. The raven, my dears, has returned...