Cutting my own hair is rock bottom

ALRIGHT. I’ve finally gone over the edge. I’ve succumbed. Lockdown has done me in.

It had to happen, and a bit of me is quite proud it’s taken three full lockdowns and more than a year before the worst hit.

My savagery has reached its nadir. They say we all have a rock bottom, and I’ve arrived at mine.

If you’d told me a year ago, during those heady pre-war days when it all seemed so far away, in a different country, that I’d have got to this point, well, I would have thought you were fit to be locked up. So, with a trembling hand on a heavy heart I have to admit this now, to myself and others: I’ve cut my own hair with a nail scissors.

It may not be quite the brandy-forbreakfast stage but, honestly, can that be far off now?

I started out, like most of us, buying hair colour in a box with a jaunty model on the front (who, let’s face it, absolutely had her tresses done professionally in a proper salon with a celebrity stylist and good lighting), and you think, OK well, I used to do this when I was 16, I can do it again.

But you can’t.

At 16, all my hair had to worry about was whether a Farrah Fawcett wave or a Princess Diana bob was more on trend.

These days there’s a streak of badger grey running through it; what my lovely hairdresser (oh, I miss you super-woman!) calls “highly resistant”. Although she could have been describing me, in fairness.

And before you ask, I have been cutting himself’s hair throughout, which won’t win any awards at Peter Mark but does the job.

Why couldn’t he return the favour? Well, there isn’t a snowball’s chance in hell he would do a decent job, no more than myself, but I’d prefer to be critical and crotchety with me, rather than him. Anyhow, it hasn’t helped.

The frizz is frizzier, the grey is still resistant and please, please, please can we have the salons open again? I’ll wear a full hazmat suit if needs be.