There are many reasons I might hit the bottle. But this week's one is the subject of Tara's Gallery:
Now I know Tara's really hoping for dreadful pictures of bubble perms and culture-club-esque rat-tails, but fortunately, by good luck and no management at all, I managed not to hit my teens until the end of 1990, by which time grunge was where it was at. So my worst crime against hair fashion was probably lank and unwashed, but otherwise remarkably like this:
Fortunately for the sensitive, there are no photos of my late teens, which were most definitely not my most attractive stage, but in this one, I was, guessing by the candles, eleven, and my hair stayed remarkably like that (minus the fringe) until I was about eighteen.
Now, however, it looks more like this:
B, loyally and lovingly, says both photos are over-exposed and that isn't my hair colour at all. In my defence it's remarkably difficult to take a photo of your own head, especially when your hair is in your eyes, but you see what he's getting at. I'm not the same colour any more, am I?
Age eleven: pale skin, pink lips, luscious chocolatey dark locks - Snow White in a fetching check shirt. Now, well, you'll have to take my word for it that I'm just as pale, but the locks are definitely heading for the pepper and salt end of the metaphorical culinary spectrum.
And I'm wondering - is it time to do something about that? Shall I hit the bottle...?