Today, my Style Statement is: Drowned Rat.

I live in the wettest city in Canada (also the most beautiful, if I do say so – but still, the wettest) and that can’t be good for my hair.

See, I’ve got rather a lot of it. A man once told me I could never accurately judge my weight because of all the hair. (Come to think of it – does hair actually weigh all that much?) In college I was known as “The Girl With The Hair” because I had “ringlets down to me arse”.

Then in a radical move to lose my hippy image, I decided I wanted to look EXACTLY like Anne Parillaud in La Femme Nikita. This necessitated a Very Short Haircut. This was also a Very Bad Idea.

Many years later, I have so much hair that I produce a daily carpet of fuzz on the bathroom floor. I can run my hands through it and stray hairs fly into the air. I must have some Afghan Hound in me somewhere, because my whole family is hirsute: my ninety-eight-year-old grandfather has a full head of blistering white hair, my dad could dread his snowy locks (which I keep encouraging, but he refuses) and my brother is blessed with a mop of salt and pepper that’s mighty distinguished. They don’t have the bathroom floor problem though. Probably because a) they can’t see it, and b) they wouldn’t care if they did.

My bathroom floor fuzz is the result of such mundane tasks as brushing my hair or, you know, walking around. So I don’t think I’m doing anything outrageous but my husband likens it to leaving toenail clippings on the coffee table – which is utterly unfair because that’s just repulsive (and grounds for divorce.)

So I figure I have two options: I could dye my hair the EXACT colour of the bathroom floor – which would look a bit weird, or I could shave it all off. If I had the defined bone structure of Sinead O’Connor or Annie Lennox, that’s exactly what I would do. Ah, what to do!? The challenge!

I suppose I could just clean up after myself. There’s that.