There comes a moment in every person’s life when they catch their reflection and think ‘Jesus.’

OK, so maybe not Miranda Kerr. Or Margot Robbie. But most people find themselves stunned by the average-ness of their own appearance at one time or another.

Yesterday, I had that moment.

I just really was not looking great. Winter was partly to blame, lending itself to dry skin, frumpy clothes, and too many nights in ignoring my appearance.

To make matters worse I'd been trying to live out my childhood dream of having long, luscious hair, despite having a head of feral fine and knotty strands, predisposed to merging into one massive dreadlock overnight.

So I decided it was time for a change; a haircut. I needed it all gone.

Yet while I was paying an obscene amount for a 're-style' (it's a haircut, let's call it a haircut), I had a truly bizarre hairdressing experience — and now there's something I need my hairdresser to know.

As she sighed and tutted while attempting to comb my hair, telling me my hair was 'dead' and 'damaged', and I should really buy hundreds of dollars worth of mildly effective products to fix it, I felt like saying: I don't care. 

I don't care. 

She challenged me as to whether I look after my hair and why it's so dry. She asked me where I last got it cut (obviously they totally botched it). She reiterated the importance of caring for my hair and all the horrible, scary things that might happen if I don't.

She asked me question after question ('Do you blowdry it?', 'Do you straighten it?', 'Do you use products?', 'Do you brush it?'), and whatever answer I gave was most definitely the wrong one.

Watch: Apparently, this is how much hair product we should be using. Hmm. (Post continues after video.)

She talked about a very expensive keratin treatment I could purchase that would make a world of difference. But, you see, it would be very hard for me to justify spending hundreds of dollars on a treatment, given the extremely small extent to which I care about my hair.

I just. don't. care. 

My hair is neither the most important, nor the most interesting thing about me. Far from it. It's a bunch of protein filament that grows from creepy follicles, and sits messily on top of my head.

And newsflash: hair is already dead. I didn't kill it from bleach and using my hair straightener too often. It is dead because it is not alive. It does not breathe, because it is hair.

While she hacked (not gently, I might add) at my knots, I almost wanted to laugh.

Should I be ashamed for the state of a part of my body I can't control? Should I go into detail explaining to her that I've always had fine hair, ever since I was a baby, so much so that my mum was genuinely worried I'd be a really funny-looking adult?

Should I tell her that the horror that is my current mop is the very reason I was never allowed to have long hair as a kid, because my mum had a full time job, and didn't have time to deal with it?

I felt a bit sorry for my hair. It's not its fault it's so shit. (Post continues after gallery.)

I resent the expectation that simply because I'm a woman, I must take great pride in my hair.

That it must be a crucial part of my identity and I must want to invest lots and lots of money into it. That I must be made to feel guilty by magazines and advertisements and a person I'm paying for a service because I'm not 'womaning' properly by having unhealthy hair.

All power to the women (and men) who care about their hair. I'm sure you look bloody fabulous. But personally, I just don't care.

And, God, I wish my hairdresser could understand that.

Have you ever been hair-shamed?