My father was left speechless

DuRInG my early teens, I spent hours furiously backcombing my fine hair, desperate for a barnet worthy of foxy troublemaker Lucy Ewing in Dallas. Oh, how I coveted her long, flowing blonde curls, which magnetised men and somehow got them to do exactly what she wanted.

So when a local hairdresser had a promotion on perms, I took the first available appointment.

Were such glamorous tresses achievable in a Birmingham surburban hairdresser’s? The 15-year-old me hoped so.

I felt more like Hilda Ogden from Corrie than a Hollywood star as thin rubber rollers were wound tightly on to my forehead. I ignored the overpowering chemical smell of the lotion that was applied to set the curls, and the sensation of my scalp being singed as it started to work.

I avoided the mirror as cotton wool was wrapped inelegantly around my scalp. But finally, as I left the salon, I had to face the truth: I looked less like Lucy Ewing and more like a reject from Ozzy Osbourne’s Black Sabbath. My father was speechless. When he did find his voice, it was to refer to me as ‘The Poodle’.

Mum maintained a diplomatic silence, remembering all too well my previous ‘ celebrity’ hair disasters: the unflattering Purdey (Joanna Lumley in The Avengers) at junior school and the Lady Di flick as I entered my teens.

But it’s the perm that I regret most. Because I understand from my brother-in-law that, when he goes back to reunions at the school we both attended, I’m not remembered for my career in television or even as an author.

no — I’m known as the one with the poodle hair.