Scalped!

My hairdresser is an agent of karma.

On Saturday I went to lunch with my sister, who called me several times over the course of last week to relate in hysterical accents the story of "the world haircut in the world ever". I arrived at our date prepared for the worst and armed with details of hair extension companies, head scarves, tips for waxing and styling, and - let's be honest - just a bit of morbid curiosity. Had she really managed to find a haircut that would dwarf her big blue eyes and destroy the man-dazzling effects of her toned and curvy size eight figure?

... would I leapfrog into the role of prettier sister?

It was only for a second that the ungenerous thought crossed my mind, but it was enough. By the time the gorgeous elfin waif swept up to the table and begged me to tell her it wasn't as bad as she thought, the damage had been done.

(Just in case you wondered, she now looks not unlike this. Which - as you can imagine - is by no means a bad thing.)

On Sunday I went to my hairdresser, only to find that my usual stylist was off sick. With hindsight perhaps I should have taken the hint. New stylists invariably try to crop my hair - I have no idea why, crops look rubbish on me - and even the most stringent instruction cannot stop them. My Sunday replacement was no exception. "Just an inch off the bottom," I told her. "It needs tidying up but no more."

So why is it that I find myself facing the world with a bare and chilly neck? Why am I greeted with comments like "new haircut? gosh, it's very... short" as I walk into the office?

I'll tell you why, my friend. It's karma. Instant bloody karma.

Bah, humbug.