“I don’t know what you were thinking!” gasped my mother.

I wasn’t even eighteen and I had made a terrible, terrible mistake. Tragic, in fact. I lay with the covers over my head, tears streaming down my face, listening to Madonna’s Papa Don’t Preach.

It had all started when I went to Wembley with my brother and some friends. It was the Blonde Ambition tour. I met Joe there. He was a huge fan. I just wanted to impress him.  I just wanted him to be my boyfriend.  I thought that was the way, so I went along with it, much to my regret now. He said all the girls my age were doing it, so I bowed to peer pressure and did it too.

Now my mother was ashamed of me and, as I looked in the mirror, I was ashamed of myself. Ashamed and embarrassed. What had I been thinking? The luminous orange colour of my hair was cringe-worthy! I wished I could turn the clock back. I’d never had bought that bottle of peroxide…