““Red hair, sir, in my opinion, is dangerous.” ”

— P G Wodehouse, 'Very Good, Jeeves!'

I have written about my misadventures with the world of haircuts before - well, actually, probably more so with the world of haircolouring, and what one really, really ought not do.

This is inclusive of, but not limited to, dyeing one's own hair an even brighter shade of red in an all white bathroom (Psycho comes to mind), dyeing one's own hair in a hurry (big missed patches) and pretty much dyeing one's own hair full stop.

I may also have to write a post at some stage about the dangers of overuse of the word 'one' and how it leads to being ostracised by friends and family but that will have to wait.

Today is, as is usually the case with this blog, (well, it's mine after all) - about me. And my hair.

Vanity, thy name is, quite possibly, Kate.

I have cut my hair.

Short.

As in, short, short. Anne Hathaway getting into character for Les Mis short. I did draw the line at having my teeth pulled admittedly.

I expect the world to now stop and enter a period of official Kate Hair Mourning (length of said KHM to be determined - I am thinking about two months - I'm not Queen Victoria for the love of lambchops), and for everyone to buy me some really nice shoes to help me cope with this traumatic event.

Let me explain - because I know you are thinking 'she cut her hair - big whoopsies - what a superficial trollop' and calmly going on with your Sunday brekky (I hope you're having something yummy. Like bacon. Mmmmm. Bacon).

This was a bit of a no choice haircut. Because, despite the delightful treatment I am on for my even more delightful current munchy little cancer promising me the world in terms of 'less hair loss than last time' - this week saw the dreaded return of the bathroom floor of death.

Lotsa hair. Everywhere.

Now, I am massively lucky. I know this. I just like whinging. Not only do I have a very early stage and treatable cancer, I am not likely to lose all of my hair, unlike friends who are currently undergoing far yuckier treatment - it just gets thinner and doesn't feel like 'my' hair. But it also doesn't look crash hot in long stringy strands that casually come out in my fingers when I do my model turn of whipping my head around as I chat to someone - and then watch their face as my hair ends up in their drink.

And possibly their food. And their handbag.

You get the picture.

I have Osky the Spy's fur to contend with. My house does not need two Kats shedding.

So the chop it was.

And after I stopped sobbing, I was actually quite happy.

Well, I will be.

Present tense needed. Not past.

And the colour's nice!

Oh bugger it. It's just hair. There are more pressing issues at hand. Like world peace. And the craptacular state of Australian rugby. And shoes. I am off to eat some bacon. And look at pictures of girls with short hair. Or possibly Alexander SkarsGod with no shirt on.

I wonder if he'd like it?