A Pink Shock

My hair’s turned pink.

I went to bed with my luxurious golden locks lay out on the pillow beside me and woke up to find them as pink as Graham Norton’s bathroom set. At first I didn’t know what to do or what to think and that’s when Gabby burst out of the wardrobe, giggling like a Romanian machine pistol. They have some odd ideas about humour in East Europe. Some funny ideas about revenge too.

It turns out it was all her doing. She got bored this morning and after our slight row last night when I happened to make some offhand remarks about Take That’s masculinity, she decided to teach me a lesson. How I managed to sleep through the whole dying process is the thing that worries me the most. I can taste something funny on my tongue and I’m not totally convinced it isn’t the last of some crushed sleeping tablets blown down my throat with a cocktail straw.

At the risk of you thinking I'm one of those Lib Dems who'd like to legalise drugs for lesbian goats, can I just say that pink hair isn’t that bad. In fact, it’s given me a totally different outlook on the world. People are already treating me quite differently. The woman at the off license this morning even knocked a pound of the bottle of vodka I bought as a peace offering for the Romanian. Pink hair has that effect on people. I think it’s the aura of excitement that they’re responding to. I’m suddenly a man who lives on the other side of the edge of normality which marks out most people’s lives.

I’ve decided not to dye it back to something more normal but to let it grow out. If it does nothing else, it reminds me not to cross a woman who also has some Slavic blood running through her veins and who sleeps with a knife strapped to her thigh.