“Embrace messy hair,” is a mantra of mine. It’s not that I don’t own a hairbrush, I just rarely use one. Much to my mother’s chagrin, I rarely wear my hair down either. Instead, it lives in a messy knot on top of my head, held together by a tatty elastic. I just don’t care enough about how my hair looks to bother with straighteners and serums and fuss and faff. Sometimes though, I’ll catch a glimpse of myself in a shop window and see how lumpy and bumpy and lopsided I look, and I’ll think, good gosh woman, brush your hair. And so I go home and do just that. And then scrunch it into a messy knot again.