Lads, let’s take a walk along the high street this afternoon and ogle the young women. It’s fantastic! They come in all shapes and sizes. There are ones with straightened, blonde hair, ones with, erm, straightened blonde hair, and, well, that’s it I’m afraid. Not that it’s really blonde you understand. Usually it’s out of a bottle. Once upon a time they had dark brown, light brown, red, auburn, black, ginger, strawberry, mousey, grey and all shades in-between. They had short, long, bobbed, curly, layered, wild, boyish, you name it, and it was all wonderful. Now, for some strange reason best known to themselves, they all have to straighten it and dye it blonde. It’s like some horrible rite of passage.

‘Okay, the lass is fifteen today, Tracey, so let’s get her off to the sheep dip for straightening and dyeing, before the vicar has a go at us.’ The ritual must also include some form of fumigation, because they all smell the same too. If you find yourself downwind of one, they leave this pungent, overbearing block of nasty perfumed air behind them, a bit like a snail leaves a trail of slime. Maybe they actually want to look and smell like a perfume counter dolly in a department store. You know the ones; naturally pretty face hidden behind a thick layer of foundation. Horrible!

‘God gave you one face and you paint for yourself another,’ as Hamlet said to Ophelia, when they were having a bit of a lover’s tiff. Depressed and argumentative as he was, he did have a point.

So, girls, what makes you think that this corporate faux –blonde look is what we men like? I presume you are doing this to yourselves in order to attract a mate. Maybe your chief fashion inspiration is the Footballer’s Wife look. I daresay a lot of them do look similar – the ones down the pecking order who have only managed to bag a thick left back from the third division, but take a look at the higher profile ones – the Cheryl Coles and the Victoria Beckhams. They don’t look like Scandinavian lap dancers do they? Cheryl has lovely russet brown nylon hair, and Posh (why is she called Posh when she obviously isn’t?) often sports short, pixie-style hair. Say what you like about them (and I do), at least they’re being themselves, hair-wise at least. Why not copy Cheryl and bring back that luxuriant, rich brown film star hairstyle before it becomes extinct. There are only three breeding pairs left in captivity, apparently. We men love it you know. We love all of the aforementioned colours and styles, which make you girls so attractive and individual, from the wild curly manes and white freckly skin of the Irish to the near-black locks and the olive skin of the Italians. We think all that is incredibly sexy. What we’re not so keen on is seeing four inches of black roots, and being plastered in artificial foundation powder every time we lovingly touch your cheek. The Californian numbskull cheer leader-cum-page three glamour model look is so last century. It’s corny, and it only succeeds in attracting men you’d do best to avoid.

Every man I speak to about this agrees with me, so why persist with it? You are turning into clones, like Dolly the Sheep, to attract a man who often does not even like the look. The truth is, you’ll get him anyway, thanks to that very, very short skirt you’re wearing; that and the plastic boobs, and he’ll pretend you look fine because he doesn’t wish to upset you by asking you to just be yourself. The main reason he begrudgingly accepts it, however, is that there’s no real choice out there anymore. You all look the flipping same.

Buy Geoff's comedy novels online. www.geofftristram.co.uk