Few things lift my spirits like having my hair coloured. Today was the second of three visits to the hairdresser (planned with military precision) before the baby arrives. I hadn’t yet started avoiding reflective surfaces for fear of seeing my 2-inch roots, probably because the size of my belly is far too distracting at the moment. I went today because a couple of days ago my dear daughter told me that my hair had turned orange and that she didn’t like it. I wish everyone was as honest as six year olds are, maybe with a bit of tact thrown in.