For most of adult life, I've had the same haircut - a bob.
Layered, short, long, sleek, razor cut, parted in the middle, parted to the side, graduated, jet black, streaked bright pink, with a fringe, without a fringe; but mostly a bob.
There have been a couple of ventures into uncharted territory - the Gwyneth Paltrow crop that left me resembling a demented pixie and the 80s permed-to-the max long mane which just make me look like a female Brian May (that'll be Anita Dobson then) - but it's the bob I always go back to.
On a skiing trip to Italy, it was achieved by the hairdresser scraping it back into a ponytail and hacking the bottom off, before fleecing me out of a small fortune. But weirdly, it was a cut that worked and years later - on the camping trip from hell, where my hair turned into a ball of frizz - I begged with Kevin until he did the same.
That's why for the last 14 months, I've been letting my other half cut my hair. I'd like to point out that he isn't a hairdresser, barber or dog-groomer - he works in the print trade and is a clumsy left-hander - but I think he does it really well and (so far) no-one seems to have noticed that I've skipped the professional trim which was costing me around £60 every six weeks. (If anyone has noticed, they haven't said and, while polite, my friends would certainly be at pains to point out a dodgy do.)
And there are other advantages, apart from the financial.
Usually, my hair would go all wayward around 10:45pm on a Sunday night, leaving me in a state of near hysteria that the weekend had passed with it behaving perfectly and now it would be at least another week until I could book an appointment. Now, when that happens I just have to haggle with Kevin until he gives in and trims my tresses. I have a hairdresser on demand! It's every girl's dream.
But best of all - he hasn't, not even once, uttered the *words: "Going anywhere nice this year love?"
*with apologies to hairdressers the world over - I know you don't really say that. You don't, do you?