Yesterday morning, whilst heavily debating whether or not to get out of bed and make my way to the gym, snow flakes kept tumbling onto London’s streets covering it all in a cosy blanket of white. Walking through the snow on my way there reminded me of my childhood winters back in Germany. There snow and ice meant that after school we could go ice-skating on the lake just outside our house. Unfortunately in this cinstance by the time I left the gym the cosy white blanket had turned into black sludge and the fluffy snowflakes were mere soggy little drizzles.

I mentioned I was heading to Paris last week and was somewhat worried about getting stuck in the tunnel. Although Eurostar advised their passengers not to travel I thought I might give it a try anyway. Miraculously I made it there and back with few hiccups. Paris was freezing cold, even colder than London, and I realised then that going anywhere in middle or northern Europe in these sombre months was absolutely pointless. Of course I did have quite an important mission to accomplish whilst there and that was seeing my hairdresser. You see the issue with having turned into a trailer trash blonde is that it’s somewhat more high maintenance. Luckily an appointment with David Mallett is always worth a trek to Paris and most definitely worth a mention in the Princess Diaries. In fact, I can confidently argue that David is one of the best hairdressers I have ever come across. Styling many of the coolest shoots and campaigns makes him ahead of the game. More importantly however he has an extraordinary sensitivity and a keen eye for what works. He can style a typical comme-il–faut long- haired Parisian just as perfectly as he can whisk up a crazy chop. He happily turned my sister into a Power Puff Girl a few years ago dying her hair bright orange and adding a meter of matching extensions.

A few months ago when he cut my long mane into a mad bob he told his colourist Giorgio (who in my opinion is the best colourist in the world and I’m not exaggerating) “I want her hair to look really broken and dirty – a badly done Catherine Deneuve 70’s blonde.” Usually such words to the colourist just before a dramatic change would make me somewhat apprehensive but trusting both David and Giorgio I knew that this was going to be radical. Giorgio’s technique of highlights is a science in itself. Never have I seen anyone work balleage so effortlessly. For starters, no one takes the time and care he does. It feels as though he is painting a portrait into my hair.

A few months ago I went to the hairdresser in London thinking it couldn’t be that hard getting the Giorgio look somewhere else. I asked the colourist whether she was familiar with balleage and she said she was. So I instructed her to paint the highlights directly into my hair abstaining from the harsh lines that foil causes. Admittedly I was somewhat flabbergasted by the speed with which she splattered on the peroxide. Still, I conned myself into thinking that I had finally found a quicker, cheaper and closer alternative. Finally though, whilst blow-drying, horror struck! I looked like a hedgehog. She had turned my long hair into a stripy zebra look-alike. Not a good look, I tell you. That was when I really understood why it took Giorgio so long and how perfectly he had mastered the whole procedure.

It is a bit of a cliché but my hair is an essential part of defining how I feel about myself. Until a couple of years ago my hair was kept fairly short. I must have had hundreds of different cuts and styles and, above all, colours. At one point as a wild teenager my head was fire engine red. Then one day whilst back-packing through India I began growing my hair. Suddenly I had this never- ending blonde mane which I grew incredibly attached to. Albeit a bit hippyish at the best of times but my goldie-locks made me feel safe and girlie, just like a cosy cashmere blanket does on a cold night. For some reason I thought I’d keep them long until I got married. Don’t ask me why. Now I am delighted with my grungier cropped head and still happily unmarried. The best thing about my new hair is that the messier it gets, the better it looks. (Well except when I see my mother who just can’t get her head around the idea and to my great dismay insists on me looking like I did on the day of my confirmation).

So as I sit in David’s beautiful airy salon gazing at the stuffed-out leopard sitting protectively next to the entrance it feels much more like I’m visiting a friend than being at the hairdresser’s. In the middle of another room a taxidermy ostrich stares right back at me. From outside you would never know that this was the wizard’s lab. Rather the apartment looks like that of a stylish and wildly travelled individual. Photography and art books pile up. Nowhere can the cheesy celebrity mags be found.

So if you find yourself in Paris with a bit of time on your hands (yes it is a little time consuming) and you want to treat yourself to fabulous hair then take note: there is no one better than David. It’s even worth a trip through ice and snow, trust me I’m a princess.

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