Last week I went to a rather smart party. I wore a black satin dress, leopard-print heels, lots of eyeliner and my long, blonde hair loose in tumbling waves and curls.Well, I say ‘my’ hair. But until the day before, my locks were hanging on a rack in a hairdressing salon in Battersea. Because the glossy, swishy mane you can see in the main picture, right, is the result of five hours of sitting in a salon, while a specialist painstakingly hot‑glued tiny bunches of real hair to my own stumpy locks.And you know what? It was worth every minute. Not just because I love the way it looks, but because for the first time in many months, I no longer see cancer every time I look in the mirror.
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