I was an orange frizzball

Summer of 1987 and sixth-form beckoned at my school in Bolton — and with it the chance to wear my own clothes instead of uniform.

At last! A golden opportunity to shed my geeky schoolgirl self and reveal the grownup 16-year-old sophisticate I knew was lurking inside.

The key to this, I firmly believed, was a perm. Several of the coolest girls in my year had them, and now I would join their elite ranks. my bouncing curls would mark a new chapter and, I hoped, even bring me my first boyfriend.

The picture I took to my hairdresser by way of illustration was madonna in Desperately Seeking Susan — a big ask, given that her hair was shoulder-length and I had a short, blonde bob.

The result, two hours later, was less tumbling waves than gigantic frizzball. An oddly coloured ball, moreover, because the perm solution reacted with my blonde highlights and turned them a peculiar shade of orange. I knew it wasn’t good, an instinct confirmed when I called on my best friend. Her jaw actually dropped when she saw me, at which point I promptly burst into tears.

The first hair wash at home only made things worse, giving the perm the texture of Velcro. In the end, the only way to get rid of it was to chop it off altogether

And so, a month after I entered sixthform with all my big plans, I was sporting a short back and sides.