Blonde for a day

NEVER content with my mousy-brown locks, I began tampering with my natural colour as soon as I was old enough to follow the instructions in a home-dyeing kit. My hair has been through a rainbow of colours since, and the most memorable was the unusual combo I had aged 15 of carrot orange, pillarbox red and bootpolish black, which certainly made me stand out in school assembly.

In more recent years, it's gone from plum to auburn to dark brown.

My only flirtation with blonde has been a sprinkling of highlights, unless you count a one night stand with a mane of white curls which purported to be a Charlie's Angels wig but looked more like one of Dolly Parton's rejects.

And so I still had a secret, unfulfilled desire to see how the other half live. When I discovered that National Blonde Week was being launched on Thursday - to tie in with the launch of new Hollywood movie Legally Blonde - it seemed like the perfect opportunity to lighten up and find out the secrets of platinum power.

Taking inspiration from Nigella Lawson's recent transformation from Domestic Goddess to Domestic Blondess with the help of a peroxide hairpiece, I decided to wear a blonde wig for a day and see what, if anything, I'd been missing out on all these years.

My first appointment was with my fairy godmother - cosmetics manager Liz Wright at Browns of York - who promised to transform me into the blonde girl of my dreams.

From a selection of wigs at the Davygate store, she chose a long model with a trendy, feathered cut. Its bright-white shade drained all the colour from my face, so the next step was for Liz to apply some make-up to return some warmth into my skin. Thirty minutes later she led me to a mirror and staring back at me was...a blonde bimbo.

To be honest, I was slightly relieved. I feared I might look like Lily Savage's little sister.

"You're already walking differently...you've got a kind of sexy swagger," commented Liz.

And I had to admit it was true. I felt like a completely different person. The smart charcoal-grey pinstripe suit I'd been perfectly comfortable wearing suddenly felt like a straight jacket. I wanted to change into something more slinky - like a lower-cut top and a short skirt.

And I couldn't resist the urge to rest my hands on my hips and push out my breasts...and I had to bite my lip to stop me whispering 'Hello boys' to passing men.

Goodness me, would it be safe unleash me on to the streets of York? If anything, my first outing as a blonde was an anti-climax. No wolf-whistles, no men thrusting flowers into my arms, not even a wink from a passing stranger.

I slowly began to realise that my metamorphosis was having more effect on me than on the general public.

Here was I, looking like the archetypal blonde, so where was all the fun...all the gentlemen?

Somewhat deflated, I headed back to the office - and to an audience of inquisitive colleagues. The general conclusion was yes I looked different, but I wasn't born to be a blonde.

By now, I was beginning to realise that. As I sat down at my desk, I couldn't stop running my hands through my hair and flicking it every few seconds. I realised I was more of a distraction to myself than others.

Then I hit a Eureka moment (not bad for a blonde bird, eh?) - the reason I had fallen under the spell of the blonde stereotype was because there were so few positive blonde role models. I struggled to think of a brainy, successful and respected blonde woman who was also a household name and all I could come up with was Margaret Thatcher.

If that wasn't enough to make me rip off my wig and reclaim my brown roots, the next episode did the trick. I'd arranged to meet my partner Nick for lunch to get his verdict on the new me.

"You look awful," he said. "Like a prostitute."

Oh well, at least I've disproved one adage... gentlemen don't always prefer blondes.