Definition of insanity

Apparently, AA (the drinking one, not the car one) define insanity as doing the same thing over and over again expecting a different result. Well, sign me up for one of those delightful rooms with the padded wallpaper and have me fitted for a straitjacket, because here we go again.

Yes, I'm trying to straighten my hair.

This may seem like an everyday process, one that is certainly performed by millions of people the world over. Like those fortunate people, I too believe that products + good drying technique will result in poker straight and glossy locks. I convince myself every time that I know what I'm doing, that this master plan cannot possibly fail.

So after the special shampoo, the gunky styling creme, and a muscle strain in my shoulder from all the blowdrying, you'd think I'd be proud of myself.

Instead I'm checking my scalp for superficial burns and cursing the ringlets that have popped out from nowhere. Goldilocks I am not, and consequently I would like hair that suits someone over the age of five.

Now this might not seem like a particularly valid grievance, particularly in such serious times, but I've been living with this petty anguish since I was a nipper. For we curly-haired sprogs had a hell to endure every bathtime that normal people did not: detangling. I don't think the complex relationship with my evil mother can be attributed to one factor, but the ritual of getting the 'tugs' from my hair every other day is certainly near the top of the list for consideration.

I just want to look like those pretty people on the covers of magazines. Losing six stones overnight isn't likely, but I should at least be able to have the hair. I can't even take solace in those rare seasons where curls are in, because naturally curly hair doesn't look like those pictures. Those models spend forever being twisted and teased (ooh, lucky!) and it's just as pointless as the hours I spend ironing my own unruly tresses. Is it any wonder I want a quick 20 minute solution to save me another morning of avoiding mirrors - meaning I usually end up at work looking like Wurzel Gummidge. I want promises, hyperbole and assurances that miracles do happen, dammit. Then I remember: they never come true.

Curse you, lying hair product mavericks, you won't foil me again.

Ooh, Pantene do a straightening gel...

These charity wristbands piss me right off.

Go ahead, call me uncharitable, but my GAYE (heh, gay) contributions state otherwise. I've been out shaking buckets on World Aids' Day, walked, baked and occasionally shut the hell up, all in the name of charity. That doesn't make me better than anyone else. There are plenty of other things about me that take care of that.

The root of my discontent lies not in some anti-fashion agenda to be cooler than thou, nor does it come from bitterness over an allergy to cheap rubber. No, to find the real reason we have to delve a little deeper into both my past and my psyche, two places where you must be this high to ride; pregnant women and those with heart conditions are advised not to proceed, etc.

Where I come from, i.e. the middle of nowhere with no much in the way of culture, the only social activities we had to choose from as nippers were rolling around in the muck, or going "to the baths". I wouldn't like to speculate on why it was "baths" instead of "pool", but I think it was less to do with the Romans, and more with the intermittent personal hygiene habits of some of my schoolmates. God I can hear my mother now, "it's one thing to be poor, but there's no excuse for being dirty", generally whilst scraping off several layers of grime and epidermis from either my brother or myself.

So off to the baths we would duly go, once a week at most. Sunday morning was always my favourite, since all the good Catholics were at mass and my Protestant grandfather liked nothing more than to 'corrupt' our prayerful lives and upset my mother. So we'd cry and whinge until we were allowed to have swimming and a giant breakfast after instead of a boring, knee-cracking sermon from the doddery Canon.

I don't know if this particular system made its way outside the environs of Lanarkshire, but since our Council never had the brightest crayons in the box, it's likely our municipal guidelines were simply pinched from elsewhere. Anyway, upon pitching up at the baths and paying your 50 pence for an hour or so of swimming, you had to exchange your locker key for a gaudy plastic band. Staying in past your time was never really an option. The lifeguards were like ninjas, the moment you splashed near to a side, they were on you: either humiliating you out of the pool with barked orders and insults; or plucking you out by the swimsuit straps/waistband like a dying flounder. One such occasion of being slapped down on the tiles after merely attempting a kick turn was enough to leave you knowing not to mess around. So at the shout of "WHITE BANDS OUT THE POOL PLEASE", you knew you absolutely had to haul ass, all the while making it look like you were neither bothered nor scared.

So if I laugh in your face when I see you respective coloured pieces of rubber hanging round your wrist, it's really nothing personal. I'm just masking the reliving of my childhood traumas, and it's nothing at all to do with you being a trend-slaved ponce. Honest.

With our compliments ("I like your hair!")

I'm not good with compliments.

A little difficult, you might suppose, given that pretty much everything I do in my waking hours is motivated by a desire for recognition and praise. My life thus far has been punctuated by the certificates of achievement, the written pats on the head that fill countless shoeboxes in my possession. To the casual observer, I'm falling over myself for pleasant things to be said both to and about me.Not so, for in the presence of anything vaguely complimentary, I metaphorically shrivel like an apricot in a tumble dryer (don't try this at home kids. People from Whirlpool will mock you, and nobody wants a piece of that) and wish to be anywhere but in the receiving line.

I usually attribute this to the carefully cultivated false modesty that enabled me to survive high school. It was essentially big fish, small pond syndrome (well, killer whale to plankton is probably a more accurate comparison) and it was very noticed when one was to succeed in anything. Social death could easily happen after the slightest indication from a maths teacher that your fractals were the prettiest. Actually, I'm not entirely sure fractals were ever on the syllabus, perhaps I mean quadratic equations? I was one of those precocious types to begin with - getting good grades from the most sadistic of educators, and constantly singled out as an example of how it should be done. You must all know that there are two reactions in this scenario: if it happens to you, cringe and motion for the ground to open and swallow you; if you're mere observer, instantly loathe that crawler for daring to be better than you, not that you care because you're too cool to be brainy. So I learnt within a few weeks that pride and a sense of achievement would be the equivalent of a 'kick me' sign between the shoulder blades. I adapted well, pooh-poohing even the slightest nugget of praise as being the action of addle-minded teachers who all wanted to marry me or something hideous. It worked, and I survived with nary a bruise for my troubles.

But it's more than that. Should Mrs Lola happen to say I'm looking particularly stunning, or a friend remark upon my professional telephone manner, and I'm instantly backing away like I've been stung by a terribly vicious kamikaze wasp. I don't know what to do with things like that. I might throw around compliments like cheap confetti, but I'm 100% uncomfortable being on the receiving end.I suppose there's a book of etiquette somewhere to deal with situations just like these. Only I can put the grace into gracious after all, but I have no earthly idea how to begin.