Isn't that wall very green? Doesn't that laptop cover make me look like I think I'm a thirteen year old girl?
And don't try and pretend you didn't notice that the arm of that settee could do with a bloody good wash.
Yet our seriously questionable decor pales into insignificance when you take a look at those spilt ends. Absolutely atrocious. And she's only got three hairs. Mine's not much better.
I have previously shared with you my star crossed love affair with home hair dye. Not being bezzie mates with the back of my own head, I have failed to spot the frazzled disgrace I try to pass off as hair which I discovered, after yesterday's news piece, apparently hangs lifeless, limp and singed down my moulted on back. Don't get me wrong - I'm not one of these women who tries to pick holes in herself. I don't study photographs containing me and dig out reasons to go and cry in a cupboard for three days. But after yesterday's three hundred and sixty degree reality check, broadcast to the WHOLE OF THE NORTH WEST IN GLORIOUS HD, I can no longer ignore the buggers.
So, how to address my cuticle catastrophe? Here is the plan.
Get hair cut.
When I say cut, I actually mean trimmed. And when I say trimmed, I actually mean snip at the ends a bit. And when I say snip at the ends a bit, I actually mean do not make any contact whatsoever with a single follicle on my head, clipping only at the air around it and being incredibly sure not to remove even a millimetre of length from the locks themselves. You should however, placate me throughout this imaginary chopping by pretending that I am being incredibly brave, bold and daring for allowing you to hack away.
You should praise me throughout for "having a change" and if you want to throw in a chorus of "she's getting all the dead ends cut off" while pointing theatrically and dancing around your incredibly pretentious salon, be my guest.
Purchase expense hair products I have no clue how to use.
After forty five minutes of; small talk about the weather; awkward silence; small talk about holidays; awkward silence; noseying at what other people are having done through the mirror; awkward silence; small talk about occupations; awkward silence; then a final period of pretend coughing before I decide to break ANOTHER awkward silence by requesting advice regarding hair products. And because I have an inability to think for myself, resist fancy made up hair lingo and ignore very cute pots of gunk, I am browbeaten into purchasing £237 worth of stuff to whack on my mane.
Do I know how to apply these lotions? Not on your life. So do I ask? Are you mad?! Talk sense will you. I do not attend a salon to return a better looking, more knowledgeable human being. I am there to wince at the affectation, throw vast amounts of money down the toilet and feel small, unattractive and like a traitor to my genitalia.
Think on will you.
Dye barnet light-ish blonde shade.
Dying your hair any shade of anything IS the answer to most problems life throws at you.
Parents getting divorced? Dye your hair.
Car MOT due? Dye your hair.
Luggage overweight? Dye your hair.
Due in court? Dye your hair.
Forgot to take your bins out? Dye your hair.
Rather large picture to frame? Prepare a large, clean surface and assemble the necessary tools.
(Like I said, dying your hair is the the answer to most problems.)
So there you go. With such a comprehensive three step plan, by this time tomorrow evening I should cut a vision of fresh, vibrant, nourished tresses.
If only I could work out how the bird's nest above my eyes took root in the first place. Just one of life's mysteries I suppose.