I used to get infuriated by my husband's refusal to set foot in hair establishments displaying the word "coiffure". The pictures in the posh hairdresser chains show men who use moisturisers and wear matching socks. I imagined that if he would just let his hair be washed by someone else, he would suddenly become less army surplus and more Harvey Nicks. But he will go inside a "barber's" only if the man with scissors (or preferably a razor) is over 50, macho and Mediterranean. Along with his obsessive addiction to running around with groups of men in little shorts for four months of the year (also known as rugby), this could be seen as suspect behaviour. I now have, after some consideration, to admit that his coiffeurism, though annoying, is common sense. After all, in the 15 years we've known each other, he has had precisely one "dodgy" haircut - I've had more than a dozen.

Hairdressers pretend to be a woman's best pal, but they are our enemies. They use our self-doubt to get us to spend more money on their services in a year than you'd pay an accountant or an architect. Then there are the products on which they earn a commission by selling. "Your hair is dry/oily. We have this fantastic treatment/conditioner that will change your life. It only costs £20."

Adult women turn into childishly insecure girlies in their cruel, knowing hands. After my latest venture into their damaging world, I am almost ready to start cutting and colouring my hair at home.

The first time I had my hair "professionally" cut, the hairdresser was stoned (which I thought amazingly cool). I was at a friend's house when her mum's hunky Italian pal sat me down in the kitchen. He took my mousy bobbed hair in his hands and looked deeply into my dazzled, teenage eyes. He then said he wanted to cut my hair. He smoked weed profusely, sending my giggling mate to the bathroom for warm water and towels, as if he were delivering a baby. He shared his super-skunk with us while Mick Jagger sang in the background. This charlatan shaved me almost bald to the middle of my head and what was left of my hair he spiked upwards. I was just too lanky to be cool in my teens. With my long neck, and this shock of hair, I looked about as glamorous as a llama after a bad firework accident.

Now, before you male NS readers turn back to Hunter Davies, read on. Because, like my husband, you lot are even greater hair snobs than women. If you don't believe me, then when was the last time you walked past a hairdresser's window swarming with girls with spiky hair and ladies in rollers and thought: "I'll just pop in there for a trim?" Never, I bet.

Last weekend, I finally abandoned years of hair pretentiousness, Kensington salons, camomile tea and high- quality royal gossip. I went to the shopping centre, had a cuppa from "Jules", who cut my hair and told me happily that her son has stopped peeing on her neighbour's front door (he is eight).

It will surprise those of you who don't know me that I am not a natural blonde - I know, shocking news, but true. I've stayed bottle and brittle because blonde hair says "media".

When my roots have been touched up, I can almost hear the sound of large, expensive doors opening for me. It's different down the supermarket. Here, ladies go for colour, colour, colour. No streak is too garish, no pink rinse is too pink. I gingerly sat down. The prices - "£25 every Saturday", colour and a cut - were amazing. I asked for the colour chart.

I woke up this morning and stared in the mirror. The startled face opposite was wearing what looked like the purple wig I wear only on New Year's Eve and at Glastonbury.

The only sounds I hear as I look at my new "plum" follicles are bailiffs knocking and crying babies.