Grey roots. The last, unmentionable taboo. Embarrassing, shameful, hidden. It is a subject even the characters in Sex And The City dared not broach (could you have imagined Carrie, sitting every other week with her hair enveloped in gloop?).
When Nicole Kidman attended the premiere of her new film last week with an inch of silver regrowth glistening ominously, she made headlines around the world.
Has she let herself go? Is she depressed, or just wildly busy? Will she ever work again? Will her new husband leave her?
The funniest comment came via email from a staunchly feminist friend of mine, who wrote: 'Don't you think Nicole is letting the side down? My husband keeps peering at me, saying annoying things like: "Is that what would happen to you if you stopped dyeing your hair? Would you, too, look like a badger?"'
Of all the embarrassing, deeply personal things I have written about over the years - the fact I didn't, Madonnalike, have sex with my husband for nine months, the fact I've had plastic surgery on my breasts, that I have cellulite, the fact I recently turned 50, and on and on and on - the one thing I have been unable to come clean about is the fact I have very white, very wiry, roots.
If I am unable to crawl to my colourist, Louise Galvin, every two weeks without fail, I develop a rather unbecoming halo around my face that exclaims to all and sundry: 'Ha ha! She should be knitting tea cosies and placing all her pottery knick-knacks on doilies!'
Everything, and I mean everything, revolves around what part of my two-week root regrowth cycle I happen to be inhabiting.
When Nicole Kidman attended the premiere of her new film last week with an inch of silver regrowth glistening ominously, she made headlines around the world.
Has she let herself go? Is she depressed, or just wildly busy? Will she ever work again? Will her new husband leave her?
The funniest comment came via email from a staunchly feminist friend of mine, who wrote: 'Don't you think Nicole is letting the side down? My husband keeps peering at me, saying annoying things like: "Is that what would happen to you if you stopped dyeing your hair? Would you, too, look like a badger?"'
Of all the embarrassing, deeply personal things I have written about over the years - the fact I didn't, Madonnalike, have sex with my husband for nine months, the fact I've had plastic surgery on my breasts, that I have cellulite, the fact I recently turned 50, and on and on and on - the one thing I have been unable to come clean about is the fact I have very white, very wiry, roots.
If I am unable to crawl to my colourist, Louise Galvin, every two weeks without fail, I develop a rather unbecoming halo around my face that exclaims to all and sundry: 'Ha ha! She should be knitting tea cosies and placing all her pottery knick-knacks on doilies!'
Everything, and I mean everything, revolves around what part of my two-week root regrowth cycle I happen to be inhabiting.
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