It's a wet and blustery day. Forget the cloud of volcanic ash from Iceland, outside the air is full of moisture. Earlier, my barnet, a jumble of curls and twists which defines the laissez-faire era of hair was blown into a rampant mess. I came in to escape the elements only to find I looked like I’d been in a fight with a couple of Doberman Pinschers.
I have a love/hate relationship with my hair. Admittedly the chaos of curls has become more appealing with age. Repugnance during my teens led to coaxing the corkscrews into submission with a five hundred degree straightener. The majority of my twenties was spent under a hat collection which could easily give Lady Gaga a run for her money.
Finally, I realised that each curl is perfectly co-ordinated - they fit together. Since I overcame my disdain of frizz (and fear of resembling a piece of brunette candy floss), my full-on curly glory has become a cause for celebration rather than consternation.
A month ago the Office for National Statistics revealed that hair straighteners now outsell hairdryers, further proof that women are still weary of their unruly locks. But why are so many of us refuting the true clarity of our curly identities?