What is it with women and hair?

While the world’s economies struggle and cuts are made in noble professions from healthcare to policing, there is a new hair and nails shop opening every five seconds.

Because nothing makes a woman feel as good as when she is being restyled and polished up.

For the spouse, the partner or even the humble boyfriend, this imposes extra demands in terms of discipline, patience and holding our tongue.

When the woman went out this morning looking as gorgeous as ever but comes back looking different and silently demanding that we fall on the floor in worship, we don’t understand if we’re supposed to be worshipping her or the architect of her transformation.

As a gesture of solidarity and sympathy in advance, I offer a little story about an erstwhile girlfriend, a story with which I think many can identify. She was good looking, elegant and intelligent.

Not chocolate-box perfect but she had learned over the years how to make the most of her attributes.

What she didn’t need was for the latest wizard of the scissors to work his magic on a face he had never seen before. She walked into the house in late afternoon with that strange quietness that heralds a row.

She’d told me about this hairdresser, shown me his advert in the paper, where he described himself as “an artist”, and while I thought that was unbelievably pretentious, she had apparently seen nothing funny in it. All her friends were going to him. He was the Messiah of the salons.

And now he had done his stuff.

The maestro had cut several inches off her flowing black locks. He had straightened out all the lovely waves that gave it such character. But worst of all, he had arranged it like curtains so that only her nose was visible. And suddenly that perfectly ordinary nose made her look like a pampered medieval hag.

Gentlemen, you know what was going through my mind. She wants me to say it’s great – she looks lovely. But if I do that, she might persevere with the style and I’ll have to buy her a broomstick for her birthday. But the alternative — to tell her straight — would lead to an instant scene, followed by a long drawn out cold war that would poison the evening and possibly several days to come So what do you do? You do nothing.

The world might end in 30 seconds or an axe murderer might break in and dismember you, and you will never have to give your opinion. Or she might laugh and say “Yes, it’s terrible, isn’t it? Don’t try to be nice, darling.

You’re so sweet.” But none of those things will happen. In the real world you’ll avert your gaze so it doesn’t draw attention to the scene of the crime. Pretend you haven’t noticed, which is a category B offence to be avoided in normal circumstances but for which you will gladly take the rap in this case. Say nothing, act casual and wait for the bomb to drop.

It drops.

“So? What do you think?” You quickly run through a range of responses. “What I think is that I’m going to break that hairdresser’s fingers and shove his scissors up his blow dryer.” Or perhaps this: “I think that when you left here this morning you were beautiful, and, don’t get me wrong, you will be beautiful again, but…” Nothing is going to work. Like George Washington and his father’s cherry tree, you go for honesty. But you can’t put it into words.

No words are needed. She smelled your treachery before she even came through the door.

All hell breaks loose and a ton of unwarranted guilt weighs down your stomach. She charges off upstairs and you sit in the kitchen, trying not to finish the bottle of wine you were supposed to be sharing.

It’s only a matter of time. Sooner or later she will calm down, come down and either you will make up with that unique brand of passion that follows a furious argument or she will brush past you and head out into the night to drown her sorrows with the girls.

You find yourself in the bathroom with its bewildering array of half-empty hair products.

Conditioners, dyes, “treatments” and plastic bottles that probably contain shampoo, even if the word doesn’t make it onto the packaging, crowded out by nutri- gloss, hi-shine, luxi-care and blah blah glyco silk.

What is it with women and hair? Oh, to hell with it: you might as well dem o l - ish that b o t t l e of wine a f t e r all. You c o u l d be in for a long night.