Debbie Harry and her alabaster hair was the starting point for my long love affair with peroxide.
I was 14 when I discovered Blondie and my virgin hair was mousy brown when a home dye job done by my auntie went horribly wrong for my mother’s hair but proved absolutely perfectly for mine.
Instead of simple, subtle highlights my heavy-handed aunt pulled my whole head of hair through the cap.
Fast forward 13 years, five shades of bleach lighter and numerous head shaves due to bleach damage and I was faced with a colour conundrum no dye junkie wants to face.
Grow out the blonde or dye your hair brown because you are pregnant.
There’s a ton of conflicting “dos” and “don’ts” when you are with child, and smearing your bonce with bleach once a month was one “don’t” I begrudgingly adhered to.
I went au naturale for 18 months and even though it was my real hair colour I couldn’t shake the feeling I wasn’t myself. I’d look in the mirror and think something was missing. So last week I returned to my roots and went for a blissful full-head bleach. And as my scalp sizzled under the chemical reaction I could feel myself returning.
It’s so cliché, and I even hate myself a little for writing this, but blondes do have more fun.
It’s that time of year every true Capital fashionista eagerly awaits, the Jane Davidson summer sale. I popped in last week as they were marking down stock, and there’s designer clobber for £20.
Go take advantage before