Yesterday I finally got a taste of what it was like to be Superman. No, I didn't prance around Nynäshamn in tights and cape and wearing my undies on the outside of my clothes. I'm saving that for Halloween. But I did get a haircut.

I know, I know. You are all about to press Email Marie and tell her that I'm confusing heroes and I really meant Sampson. But bear with me a minute or two.

On the way home in the evening, I popped into the supermarket to pick up icecream for my little icecream-a-holics. While I was there, I ran into an aquaintance and said a cheery Swedish "Hej!" to her. She turned and glanced at me, then frowned and gave me her best "Piss off. I don't know you" look that is the usual greeting one gives unknown people in this country. Then I saw the slow dawning of recognition overtake her face and she changed immediately to a welcoming smile and a warm greeting, followed by the explanation that she didn't recognise me because I'd had my hair cut.

Let's get this into some kind of perspective here. My hair is thin, blonde, dead straight and I wear it in a bob (or page style as they call it here). I got about 8cm cut off the length. That's it. I didn't suddenly change the colour and style to this:



Nor was I tempted to get a poodle perm (sorry, Lambi). Just a few measly inches off the length. And I used to think how fake it was that no-one cottoned on that Superman was really Clark Kent minus the Nana Mouskouri-style specs.



(Did you check out the intense stare they both have? I'm still cracking up over that. Where are the little men in white coats when you need them?)