Emmaprovement Continues...

My curly-haired contemporaries are abandoning me. Succumbing to the seductive hot irons of Yuko Japanese straightening. And each time, I think: they look better.

But Yuko is a pretty big commitment. Permanent. I can barely decide what I want for dinner. Let alone something that drastic to my appearance.

I email my male friends for advice. They aren't bright enough to spare my feelings. The overwhelming response is "do it". One did ask why I wanted the change. "I'm sick of myself," I explained.

"What?" he said, aghast. But what does he know?

Now, I know that having naturally curly, red hair does have some advantages. As a kid, I always got to play Annie. And there's something about an awkward, be-speckled, curly-haired ginger child that really brings out the best in adults.

Even now, friends can find me in a crowd. Heads turn when I walk into room, so much so that one ex thought I possibly had irresistible levels of pheromones. If only. Just a big curly red light above my head.

Hair like mine attracts a lot of artistic (read: unbalanced) men who think you are automatically passionate and fiery. I am, I guess. But maybe that's because it's expected of me. Maybe, deep down, I'm subdued. Quiet. Reserved, even.

Supposedly, in the workplace, curly-haired women are seen as erratic and disorganised (check and check) and men, I think, overall, like straight hair better - it's easier on the eye. Maybe I'd be prettier if I was plainer.

So, this week, I booked an appointment with Colour Nation in Covent Garden. I'm going to have straight, silky hair, shiny as a slick, wet seal. Maybe even dye it mouse brown. At the initial consultation, Maya, the technician wrapped a long curl around her finger. "It's nice," she said. "You SURE you want to do this?"

But my mind was made up. So, a few days later, I settled in her chair for the four-hour appointment. Maya - who has the patience of Job - carefully applied relaxer, then ironed my hair, then applied neutraliser to fix it. When it was done, she blew it straight again, explaining that she had to trim off the ends as they were dead.

This sentence usually causes me untold panic. All through my adolescence, I listened to hairdressers, and ended up leaving the salon looking like either Ronald McDonald, Reba McEntire or with a auburn version of Whitney Houston's triangle-shaped barnet in the 80s.

But I was lulled by all the attention and said yes. Until I saw all the hair on the floor. I had a proper panic and yelped at poor Maya to stop. I'd lost three valuable inches. I'm like Samson with my hair: less hair, less power.

I was ordered not to wash it for three days or touch it for two weeks.

Of course, seconds out the door, I can't stop touching it, running my hands through it, changing the part, admiring myself in each new window. A friend I've known since ten walked right past me, not recognising me.

Even now, I can't stop playing with it. And panicking that I've done the wrong thing. Never again will a boy quote Yeats, "looped in the loops of her hair", while running his hands through my locks.