Alexa Chung: 'Turns out I don't hate sexiness – I just despise the lads' mag version'

It was probably a bad idea to make an important decision with a hangover, and hair-related decisions are as important as decisions can get.

The morning after I had my locks chopped and transformed from mid-length nothingness to a sharp fringeless bob, I was dismayed to discover I had nothing to wear. Or rather, none of my clothes matched my head.

This makes me miserable. Every morning now, I sulk my way through a rail of smock dresses and oversized T-shirts and think how my Past Self apparently lined up an entire wardrobe of childlike items to aggravate the Future Me. Mean. The real challenge now is finding ways to maintain an essence of sex appeal whilst sporting the haircut of a 12-year-old boy in the Nineties (more commonly known as "curtains"), maybe it's not that short, but it's certainly not far from Joan of Arc's jaw-length mop. The solution, I have discovered, is to wear everything tight, which is a shame because before last week, this was a look I vehemently hated. In fact, before taking on such a sexless cut, sexiness itself is something I tried to avoid at all costs.

On a recent photoshoot for a super-chic French magazine, I attempted to appease the gathering crowd of fashionistas in the studio by throwing some semi-sexy poses. Arms up, left hip swung out to one side, that sort of thing, I felt deeply uncomfortable. I took it upon myself to inform the photographer: "I am the least sexy person you have ever met, I'm altogether allergic to the word." She disagreed and continued to shout the word "sexy" intermittently between flashes.

We later had a conversation in which we managed to get to the root of my issue... turns out I don't hate sexiness, I just despise the brash lads'-mag version of it, all bad bikinis and gritted teeth. We agreed that looking like you're actually having sex and appearing to be sexy are two very different things which somewhere along the line have become muddled up.

Francoise Hardy, the French Sixties songstress and pretty much my hero (this week), managed to project an image that was beyond sexy without ever being pictured on all fours daubed in fake tan; she was hardly ever seen out of a roll-neck jumper. She did have long hair, however.

Over the past few days I've been ssembling some of my belongings into sad looking piles of clutter. I own a lot of shit, mainly weird photos of Victorian strangers and an unfathomable collection of cushion covers that far exceeds the number of actual cushions I possess.

Before leaving America to come back to London I managed to secure an apartment which it would be possible to rollerskate around if you weren't bothered about going too far or too fast. I plan to move into it at the end of the month. Aaarrrggghhhh!! It has no bed, no sofa, nothing – other than the small metal Jesus and empty taxidermy cabinet I installed shortly before I left.

My mum is right to worry about me. So now I have to set the wheels in motion for a full-on transatlantic move, this is something I keep fooling myself is someone else's responsibility and then I remember, no; it's entirely up to me.

Having spoken to a shipping company, I now have to work out in litres how much "stuff" I plan to take with me . Surely armfuls would be a better way of measuring quantity? I wrote a list of essentials; clothes, crying boy painting, carved wooden hands, whisk...

In the meantime, before I desert London, I am trying to enjoy it as much as possible. I am fast in danger of becoming maudlin about the whole affair. I keep walking past parks and sighing. It's OK though, I remind myself, New York has trees too.

And as much as I like to dwell on how rich in culture this city is, I rarely get round to actually visiting all the art galleries and theatres that London has to offer.

As well as concentrating on packing up all my belongings, I've also been busy working out what to wear to upcoming events I'm meant to attend. This is a very serious and tactical task. I found a beautiful grey suit from Chloe I wanted to wear, but apparently Keira Knightley has already worn it. This happens to me a lot.