This morning, I had a whole inch of white regrowth sprouting rebelliously from my hairline. Sadly, not being a man, this doesn't make me look distinguished. It just makes me look ancient. Suzanne - who is discreet and tactful, everything a hairdresser should be - has had the job of making me look slightly less ancient for the last two years. At regular intervals I slink into her salon, Ethos, looking like the skunk-haired matriarch in The Munsters and leave two hours later looking uniformly brunette and - I like to think - a lot younger.

I arrived at the salon with ten minutes to spare this morning because I decided to cycle - oh, yes, there's nothing wrong with my carbon footprint. I deliberately set off early to counteract any one of a number of possible obstacles - head wind, puncture, bootleg jeans caught in chain, civil uprising. Apart from a few denim complications, nothing held me up and I made it in record time.

"Oh, so that was you outside after all," said Suzanne when I entered, having finally finished fiddling about with the bike lock. "I wasn't sure. Your hair's looking quite... faded, isn't it?" I had to agree. Even though "faded" was clearly hairdresser-speak for Old and Grey.

Normally, while she sets to work with the industrial strength hair dye, I plough my way through piles of OK! and Hello! and Celebrity Cellulite Caught On Film! magazines that I never normally get a chance to read (being far too hypocritical to actually buy them).

But today, I was distracted. An elegant blonde - one of those polished women that you only ever meet when you've forgotten to wear any mascara - was deep in conversation with a spellbound group of women in the corner.

"Oh, that's Kim." said Suzanne when I enquired. "She's my Botox lady."

Botox! Again! My regular reader will remember that I wrote about this recently when I saw it advertised at my dentist. And here it was again! I had to find out more. Thrusting Posh and Jordan to one side and trampling over shock! horror! photos of Paris Hilton's bunions (seriously! Have you seen them? If it wasn't for the delicious Schadenfreude, I'd feel sorry for her) I rushed over to see Kim, Goddess of Eternal Youth. She looked slightly surprised to see me as I cartoonishly skidded to a halt in front of her; unfortunately, the application of brunette hair dye to roots is not a process designed to make you look gorgeous. (Think Ken Dodd after an accident with a tin of brown boot polish and you're not far off the mark.)

Kim gave me the low-down on Botox and fillers and showed me some before and after photographs.

"Could you do anything about this wrinkle between my eyebrows?" I said, frowning at her ferociously to demonstrate (and no doubt adding to the demented Ken Dodd effect).

"Oh, yes," she said. "Look - I've had it done myself. I can't look cross at all now." It was true - try as she might, Kim just couldn't look anything other than tranquil. I could instantly see the advantage of this. Being married to someone as irritating as Mr Young means that a frown is constantly leaping to my features. Perpetual serenity could add a whole new dimension to our marriage.

And I'm sure poor old Paris would jump at the chance. With those bunions, she must be constantly frowning.