I HAVE a new haircut. I don't know how it happened. I mean obviously I know how it happened, I made a hair appointment, but what I mean is, I don't know how I ended up with this particular haircut, because I went in thinking "hmm yes, keep it long and go a bit darker" and I came out snipped, blonde and with a fringe.

I look like I should be talking about soft furnishings on GMTV. Not quite the edgy image I was after.

I am such a good liar, though, that the hairdresser did not suspect a thing when I examined her efforts in the mirror three hours after we had begun, surveyed the mountains of curls and highlights, pondered whether I'd accidentally mentioned I was going to a prom, and declared: "It's beeeyewtiful!"

Then I paid the not-inconsiderable bill, tipped (I always tip more when I hate what I'm paying for, it's a nervous reaction) and left, glancing at myself repeatedly in every available shiny surface from salon to bus-station, before deciding I looked like a cross between a Pomeranian and a toilet roll cover and hastily hailing a taxi.

As I have mentioned previously (five years ago, actually, but I do expect you to be taking notes), I used to be very traumatised by haircuts in my youth due to a crazy-haired mobile snipper called Fiona whose main crime (aside from the frosted blonde streaks and dungarees) was to listen to my mother's ideas of follicular fashion, thus condemning my sister and I to several years of mullets, Lady Diana' cuts (although I don't believe Fiona ever did Lady Di's hair) and one particularly powerful session in which she transformed my sister from blonde-bobbed poppet to curly-haired brunette within half an hour.

I don't know how Fiona did it, but my poor sister had post traumatic shock for months. She still hasn't recovered, as proven by the response to my email requesting her version of events, which read, simply: "You are evil."

Not true. I felt her pain. Personally, I cried after every single haircut which, in retrospect, probably didn't do much for Fiona's sense of job satisfaction.

I'm a little less sensitive these days. So once I got home, I washed out the curls, brushed it a bit and it looked . . . okay. In a good light, I look French. In a bad light, I look like Dougal.

In the absence of a strong personal opinion, other people's comments will have to be taken into account.

"It suits you," said one friend.

"The good thing about fringes is you can always clip them to one side," said another.

"You look younger - like that picture of you in your parent's house," said the boyfriend. I would like to have protested, except I knew exactly which picture he meant. I was 11.

Perhaps I'm being stalked by old haircuts. Next appointment, I expect I shall revive the bubble perm, or be gripped by the inexplicable urge to sport a pageboy. As long as my salon don't mind me locking myself in the loo and crying afterwards, I have no real objections.