FASHION can make a fool of anyone, until you're old enough to know better. In my case the most ridiculous moments always involved trendy attachments, so I'm now wary of any beauty aids which are not strictly home-grown

Eons ago, upon my arrival in swinging London, it took me about two seconds to realise that the black, woollen coat purchased, in sunny South Africa, with difficulty, made me look like Caesar's grandmother. All the English dolly birds were sporting coats with glamorous fur collars, and the department stores were stocked with tempting examples of this with-it attire, As I couldn't afford to immediately lash out on a new coat the situation was desperate.

Until I spied the fur collars, sold separately, at Selfridges.

Most of these were out of my reach - except for a delicious, fluffy, white thing which I pounced on, paid for and sewed onto the black overcoat in a matter of minutes.

What bliss. No longer a Roman matriarch, I felt and looked like Zsa Zsa Gabor, so 'Hello London'.

Properly dressed I was able to explore and enjoy that exciting city, with visits to West End musicals high on my prioriity list - especially if someone else was buying the tickets.

Inevitably I was eventually caught in the rain while dashing with my escort from the theatre to the tube station. We had hardly collapsed into our seats on the train when the rude creature asked loudly, 'What on earth is that smell?'

Which was quite enough to set the whole packed carriage sniffing, and I must admit it was appalling. Shades of wet dog, but worse, and as we steamed and dried the reek intensified.

Naturally I joined in the grimacing and muttering but began to suspect the source of the odour was hovering above my now bedraggled Zsa Zsa collar. So it wasn't fake Siberian fox afer all - simply common and garden teased sheep. If it's all the same to you I'll say no more about that dreadful evening.

Shortly afterwards, to take my mind off that fiasco, I decided to invest in false eyelashes. The effect was fantastic, even when the corners became unstuck. In fact I couldn't imagine how I had dared to appear in public without them.

Unfortunately hospitality has to be returned so my flatmate and I invited a few people for dinner. As a rule the extent of our cooking was sketchy to non-existent but we settled on a roast, with all the trimmings. To be on the safe side we dressed ourselves carefully, with attachments, before we began cooking.

Everything went smoothly and I volunteered to serve the roasted lamb - never expecting the scorching blast which sent me reeling across the room when I opened the oven. Not that it mattered because the food was great, even if my face felt a bit funny.

However I became aware that I was on the receiving end of some strangely speculative glances so at the first opportunity slipped away to sneak a look in a mirror.

Well! What are friends for if they can't tell you your fluttering eyes are draped with what appears to be the residue of frazzled spiders?

Fortunately I had a spare pair of eyelashes, but never really trusted them after that. But not to worry because hair pieces were just around the fashionable corner and although it took time to find one the right shade this was, without doubt, the most precious attachment of all.

Upswept hairstyles were suddenly transforming scruffy chicks into elegant women. Of course many of us required the addition of that volumising 'postiche' in order to avoid the startled rabbit look. However once these were in place there were few bad hair days so this fad has remained on the fringes for years - but not without some unfortunate consequences.

The first hiccup occurred when my husband and I were strolling through an English village and my skilfully arranged hairpiece became hooked onto an overhanging rosebush. I struggled to release myself only to become well and truly entangled, so Keith had to help...

Just in time to be caught, clutching a hank of reddish hair, by a woman riding sedately past on a bicycle...

Perhaps we did look rather odd falling about in a rosebush...and perhaps she really believed he was tearing my hair out...but to turn tail and pedal off furiously was over-reacting, surely?

Anyway that little incident failed to put me off and the strawberry-blonde pony tail travelled back to Africa with us.

After a decade or two we acquired a granddaughter who refused to go to sleep, ever, unless someone, with hair she could play with, lay beside her. Which became tedious, to put it mildly.

Unselfishly, I produced my treasured hairpiece and the dear little girl fell asleep while holding it in her tiny fist.

It was supposed to be a temporary loan but four years later Chantelle was still nodding off with the aid of the hairpiece. Even worse, she carried it around all day long. What had once been an object of pride and beauty was now a fuzzy, filthy little mop, and the whole family hated the sight of it.

With Chantelle's schooldays rapidly approaching my daughter and I tried every subterfuge we could think of to separate the child from the furry horror - but always gave in because we couldn't stand the resulting roars.

Then, one memorable hot afternoon, we dropped into an ice cream parlour, with the mop, and got lucky. In her haste to get both hands into a chocolate sundae, Chantelle inadvertently cast it on the floor.

Chattering wildly we ate, flung down the money, threw the unsuspecting brat into the pushchair, and fled. When Chantelle discovered she had mislaid the hair we swore we had no idea where - and life returned to normal after about five days.

We often wondered who found IT sulking under the table, and hoped they soon recovered from the shock.

Unfortunately I have never found another hair attachment that matched properly and have had to accept bad hair days and/or the scared rabbit look ever since.

Of course I'm still searching...

Copyright 2002 Sheldene Chant