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  • I love having my hair done.
    It is such an indulgence.
    I go to a real swanky pants place in London where I can pretend that I belong;
    chart-topping electric music, beautiful tanned people with even more beautiful hair,
    catwalk fashion and champagne offered...its the life that I dream of being my normal.

    I get to sit down and lap it up.
    I get read lots of those gossipy magazines that I never allow myself to buy,
    I chat fashion with my wonderful hair dresser (who also does the hair of several big name journalists which means I get the first whispers of tabloid exposures).
    Its buzzing and I love it.
    I leave 4 hours later with new honey blonde hair.
    Debbie Harry and all that.
    A fabulous, salt and peppered extravert male stylist whom i've come to love muses over to me.
    "Looks amazing darling, and with you're peaches and cream complexion, you're so beautiful...oh to be young"
    I love him.
    From being the ugly, fat, shy child at school, the one bullied at both primary and secondary, I would always dream of being the cool, fashionable, pretty girl.
    I never think of myself as pretty, let alone beautiful.
    But at the hair dressers, there is a wave of optimism in the air.

    I went to a modelling casting afterwards.
    That's the thing about my hair dressers, they give me a confidence that is lost in Sevenoaks.
    But in London, I have a "why not - you only live once attitude".
    So I took my portfolio, my new blonde hair, stood in khaki heeled lace up boots
    and walked into Premier Model Management.

    It was full of the people from the C4 documentary Model Behaviour.
    They were all at there Macs on the oval table, packets of haribo at their finger tips.
    they didn't bat an eyelid when I walked in.
    A tiny reception woman with sugar white skin spoke to me.
    We sat on a shiny leather sofa and she flicked through my book.
    "So how tall are you?"
    "5'7" I say, hoping my heels would hide my actual 5'5 height.
    "mmm and how old are you?"
    "22" and not an ounce of a lie.

    "well with that height, and we do make exceptions sometimes,
    but thats usually for girls of about 14 or 15,
    so you're a little past it, a bit old really."

    Well there you go, well and truely over the hill.
    It wasn't all bad, she went on to give me a list of all the agencies in London that might want to book me even if they didn't. So it wasn't a complete no.

    But still I was left feeling old.
    So I dragged my old lady behind to a bar in soho
    with mr friend recently back from india
    and we drank mexican tequilla,
    in salt rimmed mojitos,
    and let friday night slip away.
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