Confession time: In short, I am obsessed with lovely locks.
How long I spend of a morning doing my hair might be one of my most embarrassing qualities. I curl it, straighten it, tie it up, let it down and curl it again with only a spritz of hair protection spray left in that sad, exhausted little bottle. It was only last week - during my Bridget Jones-esque morning in which my (missed) bus splashed me with a muddy puddle on its way past (in bus language, that would have been a big old "told you so") - that I realised my hair obsession just must say a lot about me. I don't have particularly exciting hair - it's thin, just past my chest and layered to devastation - and I think that my curly extension habit might be the problem. I'm convinced that beautiful hair makes a beautiful person. Insane, I know.
It all started in my early-teen grunge stage (we've all been there) and I very wrongly thought that a huge hairsprayed fringe would look brilliant with short, choppy layers. Really. I hide in a groaning heap of shame every time I remember those days now, and once I finally decided the just-awoken-chipmunk look wasn't really working for me (the humidity of one Spanish summer helped move things along) the process of getting my layers evened out quite literally drove me to a night with my only company being John Mayer and ice cream.
