The male lawyers in the court case were desperate to out-do each other with puns during cross-examination that involved the likes of ‘‘curly questions’’ and ‘‘I don’t want to split hairs’’.

We women in the courtroom, who were either reporting on the case or watching it from the public gallery, were not amused.

We’d all had hairdressers at some stages of our lives who were trained at the School of Sabotage where they teach looney measurements which mean a 1cm trim leaves you looking like Sinead O’Connor.

The ones who like to get a little creative at your expense should also be viewed with suspicion.

They do things like sweetly suggesting a little more colour ‘‘to complement your eyes’’ which translates to a ‘‘do’’ that looks as if you have been tipped upside down and dipped into a vat of beetroot juice.

My hairdresser is a gem who likes to collaborate, but she’s dangerous when she pulls rank.

Just after Christmas I told her I was sick of dead straight hair and hankered for a few soft curls.

With hit and miss success in the world of waves, I viewed it as an experiment and luckily ensured it didn’t coincide with any forthcoming events where looking normal was a prerequisite.

‘‘Now if your hair can’t hold curl I’d suggest a 40-minute stint under the hairdryer,’’ my hairdresser advised.

‘‘No thanks, those things are like cooking your head in a fan-forced oven,’’ I told her.

‘‘Get in!’’ she barked but I refused which, in retrospect, was a very bad move.

‘‘Well then, you’ll just have to keep those curling rods in ALL night otherwise it will be a waste of time,’’ she insisted.

I awoke the next day to curls so tight they’d become clumps of ingrown hair.

‘‘Whoa! What happened to you?’’ my son asked peering over a bowl of cereal.

I finally got hold of my hairdresser who claimed she was out of town for the weekend.

‘‘These bloody curls have fossilised on my head,’’ I whimpered.