I got a note from Pest n.1's rather posh school yesterday. It said: "Dear Mrs Borgia, Pest n.1's hair is looking a little scruffy and untidy; we always encourage boys to take care of their appearances. Would you mind reminding him to comb his hair in the morning? Thank you."

I looked at my son and saw nothing different from the usual. His blond hair was very long, granted, thick and wavy. He has an allergy to the comb and, as a result, it is true that his hair sticks up and out in the morning, reflecting the blissful hours spent on a sweet-smelling pillow.

'Right', I said. I resented the note, taking it as a personal offence to my maternal skills and eye for tidyness. I do wash his hair every day. What more do they want?

'I am going to cut your hair.'

And I did. I usually cut both my sons' hair. Rarely, but with verve. With passion and joy, like I do most things. I am scissor-happy.

I got another note from school today. It said: "Dear Mrs Borgia. Thank you for cutting your son's hair. It is a shame that you can't put it back where it was. It wasn't really THAT untidy."

Damned if you do. Damned if you don't.