Catherine Townsend: Sleeping around

After months of being secretly dissatisfied with my hairdresser, Sam, I've found someone else who knows just how to touch me. Stumbling into the alley behind her Hoxton salon, I still feel like I'm cheating on a lover.

Sam and I have a long history. My hair was in a fragile state when I first came to him, over three years ago, wearing a knit cap. A disastrous, drunken DIY dye session had resulted in my hair turning a green-black hue, and I was practically in tears.

"Don't worry," he said, with authority. "We're going to fix this, even if it takes all night." I plopped into a chair and put my hair, the symbol of my femininity, into his hands. Four hours and a few hundred pounds later, I walked out with my natural medium-brown hue blow dried to a glossy shine.

Over the years Sam has become my friend and confidant. And since I have changed hair colour as often as I have changed men, our relationship has outlasted several of my boyfriends.

But one night, after loads of red hair dye (I was going for a Rita Hayworth look) and even more red wine at the restaurant next door, we ended up in bed. It turned out that the chemistry between us was much better in the shampoo bowl than the bedroom. And although our friendship has remained intact, Sam seemed rushed the next time I came in for a trim, and failed to lavish his usual care and attention on my irregular cowlicks. On another visit, he gave me so many layers in the back that I practically had a mullet.

So I've started playing away. Was it worth it? I was hooked the first time I felt the cold pressure of my new stylist's scissors on my neck. I emerged with long layers and a perfect fringe, and felt sexier than I have in a long time. Then my new crush, Nick, unwittingly sealed Sam's fate when he uttered the words, "Did you do something to your hair? You look hot."

With so many crises in the world today, it seems crazy that a few strands of keratin can wield such power over me. But, with the exception of the musk ox, humans are the only mammals with almost continuously growing hair (scientists point to grooming rituals in primates as evidence that something in our very DNA compels us to coiff) so maybe it's OK that I'm a little obsessive over my locks.

I hadn't had the heart to tell Sam that I've found someone new. I managed to stall for a couple of months by using the old "you were on holiday" and "it was only a few highlights!" lines when he called. But the final straw came this week, when I ran into him at a bar near his Soho salon.

"You've been avoiding me," he said gently. I decided to come clean. "You know that I loved the way you did my hair, but I just decided that I needed a bit of a change," I said, looking him in the eye. "I felt weird about it, but I hope that we can still be friends."

He laughed and bought me a drink. "This new cut really suits you, Cat," he said. "But I bet you'll be back eventually." He could be right. But for now, the hair wants what it wants.

c.townsend@independent.co.uk