For some weeks now, I've been sporting a mullet. Partly it's down to perimenopausal rage. Everytime I can't find chocolate, I lynch an inch. But it's also because our local salon became a nail bar. So I cut my hair myself. All summer I looked like an extra from Spinal Tap. This morning at The Wet Fish Cafe the coffee was flowing. But amongst the regular posse, our cups were empty. Boobs like tired piping bags. "I used to worry they'd drop to my waist," I yowled. "Now they barely take rib room!" One of our group sadly shovelled down her poached eggs: "Thanks for the mammaries." A mullet and no boobs - a lifetime of ambiguous femininity loomed before me. "I've got to pretty up!" I cried. First stop was the snipper at Brent Cross. Second stop the Hello Boys department at M&S. From drudge to siren for a mere £100! The progeny called. "We're going to the Taj Mahal tomorrow, Mum." "Enjoy youselves," I said distractedly, admiring the bounce in my hair and blouse. I tripped off for tea in Hendon. "Notice anything different?" The hostess examined me minutely: "Did you get that tooth whitening paste?" No. "Period bloat? Plucked brows? New earrings?" I did a twirl. Her face lit up. "I've got it: new jeans!"