Sandra Ashenford reflects on the ups and downs of her week

THEY say that blondes have more fun, and this is a saying that I put to the test during my younger years.

My hair was white blonde when I was a very small child but quickly developed into an uninteresting mousey brown.

I didn’t give it a thought all through primary school but by secondary school, the other girls were starting to want to do something more with their hair than the regulation plaits anyone with shoulder-length hair had to wear.

This was an era of big hairstyles (remember Farrah Fawcett in the original Charlie’s Angels?), and I soon found myself making regular, expensive visits to the hairdresser’s in an effort to copy the styles I saw on television.

Along with the curly perm, I piled on the colour, and at different times I was bleach blonde, strawberry blonde, brunette and even, briefly, a red head.

I had highlights and lowlights and even though the perms eventually fizzled out (or should that be frizzled out?), I continued to colour my hair well into my 40s.

In truth, I started to go grey in my 20s and in the end I gave up trying to fight it.

When I became a grandmother three years ago, I stopped dying my hair and let the silver shine through.

Now it’s quite an interesting mix of grey, white and silver, and people often ask me where I get my highlights done.

Instead of spending all that money, I should have let nature take its course years ago.

But I have noticed that people do treat me differently since my hair turned grey.

When I buy bulky bedding or feed for my ponies, staff and even other shoppers, offer to load it into the car for me.

Sometimes I’m slightly offended that they don’t think I’m up to the job myself but mostly I’m happy to let them help.

It saves me straining my back, and I’m sure it makes them feel good about themselves for helping out an old lady.