I GOT a haircut last week and boy, don't I know it. I had grown tired of the same old look, so I walked in to an ultra cool stylist called 'Enry 'Iggins, to get me something a little more spring 2004.

I told Solange, my trendy French stylist, that I had a party to go to that night so I needed her to help me look 'hot to trot and ready to rock'.

She looked at my hair and told me to be brave. I was exhilarated. How could she go wrong? She was French, innately stylish and sculpting my new look. We had agreed that I would keep the length of my hair, which I have spent around two years growing, and as she began snipping, I felt confident in her hands. I will not take you through the shades of horror I went though as her scissors clipped away but suffice to say, serious alarm had been raised by the time she got out the hair-dryer.

"Oh look," I said, "it's both long AND short" as I studied my bizarre mop. But it was only after she had blow-dried it that the full reality dawned: Solange had given me a shoulder-length mullet and seemed proud of her work. I staggered off my seat. She was bleating about how feminine I looked. How could I resemble a 1970s German footballer and still look feminine?

I have vague memories of giving her a giant tip through some perverse impulse, and gulping at the air as I left the salon. I went to Safeway straight afterwards, partly because I wanted to pretend I hadn't had a haircut at all and that it was like any other day, that I was shopping with my old beautiful hair, which was long at the back AND long at the front.

I slowed down at the refrigerated section, staring beyond the organic yoghurt at my own reflection. And what a reflection it was - a mullet-haired girl with eyes full of fear. How could this have happened to me? And would it mean an instant dismissal at work? This kind of hair was tantamount to wearing a big blue tattoo to the office or getting my tongue pierced.

But facing the world wearing a mullet is nothing compared to facing a younger brother. He dug out his World Cup stickers from 20 years back but changed his mind at the last minute and told me I looked like a pimp. My mum tried to soothe me by saying I looked like a television presenter. Yeah, right mum.

I didn't go to the party that night because I was washing my hair. I woke up the next day looking like Sylvester Stallone in his Rocky years. The top had risen, like a cake, and the back looked like I suffered from premature hair loss. I arrived 20 minutes late for work that morning with more pins in my scalp than a porcupine. A few colleagues gave me quizzical looks but on the whole, I think I got away with it. No thanks to Solange.