Seeing myself naked in the hotel mirror, I knew that I'd done something really stupid. A few weeks ago, I arranged to meet my ex-boyfriend Andrew while in Dublin for a work trip. There was a time when I'd been madly in love with Andrew, but he was separated from his wife and facing a nasty divorce, so being with him was like standing in the eye of a hurricane.
So, we split up, but stayed friends. And we've become so comfortable with each other that I agreed to let him set me up with a friend of his, Glen, whom I've always found attractive.
I was stressed about seeing Glen, and planned my outfit with precision: a sexy, cleavage-enhancing black dress that slipped off my shoulders, some killer silver heels, and a waist-clinching belt. But then I made a terrible mistake – I overslept on the morning of my flight and forgot to pack the one essential I can't live without: tweezers.
Normally, I'm plucked to perfection, with no hair on my body from the eyebrows down. I'm actually obsessed with waxing. But I have a dark secret: there are exactly three hairs on my chin. We're not talking peachy fuzz, but coarse, black hairs that look like they came from a scene in The Fly. They've been there for years, and no amount of tweezing or waxing can banish them for ever.
So there I was, checking my make-up in the hotel mirror, when I saw that two of them had sprouted. I grabbed the only thing I could: a free disposable razor from the hotel toiletries pack. I knew this was a Very Bad Idea, but I panicked, just as I did the time I hacked off my fringe and ended up with Rod Stewart hair.
Unfortunately, with razor in hand, I slipped on the bath mat and sliced myself. After failing to stop the bleeding with a tissue (now I know how men feel!), I went down to meet Andrew and Glen wearing a giant plaster on my chin.
"What happened?" Andrew asked teasingly as he gave me a hug. "Did you cut yourself shaving?"
He was clearly joking, but the horrified look on my face and 10-second hesitation said it all. I tried to change the subject, but I could tell instantly that I'd morphed, in Glen's eyes, from Beautiful Girl to Bearded Lady. Glen wasn't as tactile as he was the last time I'd met him. It was so unfair – I'd been struck off his list for a few stray hairs.
After saying goodnight to Andrew and Glen, I went back up to my hotel room, and turned on some porn to take my mind off things. I was shocked when my phone rang five minutes later: it was Glen, asking me for another date.
He laughed when I tried blurting out an explanation about the shaving cut, and said in his melodic Irish accent, "I didn't even notice. I was too busy looking into your beautiful eyes."
He's flying to London to take me to dinner. I'd better start tweezing now.