The power of blonde – feeling better at Beau, Bethnal Green Road

It’s amazing what £120 spent in a salon can do for your state of mind. I woke up this morning with eczema etching round my eyes, blotchy skin and an oil slick barnet, the result of a stressful week drowned by four G&Ts and half a bottle of red, two takeaways on the trot and a hop to Southampton to spend time with my sister following her miscarriage whilst keeping up with an epic work schedule. At 34, looking good is far from the natural state of things, and when one’s life is creaking at the seams, so too, it seems, will one’s face.

So it took me by surprise, slumped on the sofa, glugging back wines with Reprobate Kate, generally commiserating ourselves on getting older, and only slightly wiser, to hear from an ex colleague of mine, definitely the worse for wear, congratulating me on having the best pair of tits at my old workplace. Given that I left under a cloud of redundancy, my figure was the last thing on my mind while I worked there, juggling, as I was two young kids and an unsympathetic boss. Although to be fair, I did use work as an excuse to explore my wardrobe, which had been languishing in legging since I got pregnant with Jonah. And these days, having given up on underwiring because, let’s face it crop tops are comfy, and padded bras just add unnecessary bulk when you’re edging towards the limit of your current jeans size, I’m definitely resigned to it all going a bit south. Having spent the last couple of months fighting the effects of Crohns, which seems to be attacking my face more than my guts, I’ve been feeling rather less smug about the way I look in general. In fact, I find myself hardly caring about it at all.

With a catch up with an old friend pending and a birthday party to go to this afternoon – the kids are staying with Tom’s mum for the evening – I had an appointment booked for a half head and a blow dry at a new salon I’d discovered when a new work colleague came into work looking fluffy and gorgeous having had her hair done there. Beau, on Bethnal Green Road is on my way to work, and, only ten minutes from home seemed a far easier option for a touch up than schlepping into Soho to get my roots seen to a Colour Works, as I have been previously.

The salon itself is Shoreditch-cool, staffed by bearded young folk with wax-twizzled moustaches. It has a shabby chic air, and caters to the crowd who hang around Brick Lane in the hope they become cool by osmosis. I should know. I was one of them once, and it never happened. Anyway, SJ, my young female stylist was friendly, and we built up a great rapport chatting politics, Russell Brand, and about my blog – which I’m excited about as I have a literary agent and potentially publishers interested… anyway, fingers crossed on that note.

SJ worked away, while we talked, deft and quick: the whole process seemed to happen quickly and easily, taking the rather unusual step of removing the foils while I was sat in the chair, which, while more comfortable than having your neck cranked over the sink while a junior rips them out, was also slightly alarming at the colour, which has been being toned down over the years, looked really bright. I didn’t need to worry though. SJ whisked me off downstairs where I had a wash and a toner, while the chair massaged the knots in my shoulders – she decided a peachy overlay would be best for my skin tone – and brought me back upstairs to , erm, finish me off. The colour still looked bright, but as she blew, it seemed to settle, and with a wavy blowdry, I was left with buttery soft highlights, undulating waves, and the feeling that I was suddenly a lot more noticeable on the street. In fact, I was, as I got wolf whistled twice as I carried home bags of fruit and chicken back from the shops, feeling significantly lighter in step than I have done for weeks, although necessarily lighter in pocket too. Blonde is a luxury, but it certainly has its advantages for giving a sense of well being – Tom said it looked as though I’d been on holiday when I walked in through the door, although I did also feel as if the clever might have also been bleached out of me too. A certain ditzyness had  befallen, which probably has more to do with last night’s wine than the hair, per say.

Being a touch lighter upstairs doesn’t make me any less capable of facing the challenges that lie ahead, not least, drinking to excess two days in a row, and that any ex-colleagues I happen to bump into might not even need to be wearing their rosy tinted beer goggles to find me attractive today –  but in any case even if my face shows the damage in the morning, with any luck my hair will still look good.