Gentlemen prefer blondes and so, it seems, does The Mother. "You must get something done about that hair of yours," she said.

I was sitting down and she was standing behind me, appraising the top of my head.

"What's wrong with my hair?" I asked. As far as I knew I hadn't developed a bald patch and my recent bout of dandruff was now well under control.

"I'll tell you what's wrong - it looks dingy," she said.

Well, thank you, that was a morale boost for sure.

"Dingy?" I said. "What you mean is that my hair is now its natural colour, and I think it looks quite pleasant."

The Mother sniffed. "It looks dull, you want to start colouring it again, now summer's on the way."

I disagreed. For several months I have been growing out the remnants of last year's artificial blonde highlights.

In their place are lots of natural highlights - my very own white hairs which, like my frown lines and crows feet, I've suffered a lifetime of disappointment and knocks to acquire.

"Nothing is more ageing than grey hair," said The Mother.

"It's not grey, it's white and I think it's rather pretty in the sunlight - it looks almost silver," I replied.

"Well, they're certainly not silver threads among the gold in your case, though they would be if you had your hair tinted a nice strawberry blonde," she said.

The Mother, of course, has never been a strawberry blonde, nice or otherwise.

Having had glossy chestnut hair well into middle age, she knows little about the time or the money needed to achieve a state of natural looking strawberry blondeness.

Her interest in my hair is nothing new, of course. When I was a child I yearned for long, straight hair that I could wear in pigtails like other small girls.

Instead, my hair was kept short and, worst of all, curly. These were not natural curls but artificial corkscrews, created with a bottle of perming fluid and lots of nasty, plastic curlers.

My hairstyle was known as a bubble cut and I looked like a cross between a malevolent Shirley Temple and a prize-winning poodle.

Sometimes - and I can hardly bear to tell you this - a hair ribbon would be added to the curls. I know, I still have the photos and I keep them hidden. No wonder I was bullied at school.

Now my hair is mine and mine alone. The Mother can suggest, even demand that I change it but I'll wear it as I please.

And at the moment, I'm pleased to wear it au naturel. Or I was until this week.

Had I any identification? asked the woman in the building society where I was opening an account.

As I fumbled in my handbag she said: "Anything will do - a bill, driving licence, your bus pass ..."

Fortunately The Mother was not at hand to hear this conversation.

When I got home I took a good, long look in the bathroom mirror. In it you're guaranteed to look like a corpse - with or without makeup.

"Know what?" I said to The Mother. "I've decided to go blonde again - for your sake."

"Why my sake?" she asked.

"Because it can't be much fun having a white haired daughter," I said. "It must make YOU feel so very old..."