“Shall I cut my hair?” she asked, her large, brown, soulful eyes sucking me in like a peat bog to a lost hiker. I could never fully concentrate when subjected to that look. Her words drifted over me as my hearing tried to compete with what my eyes were perceiving.

“What has brought this on Princess?” I enquired. As the words finally sank in, their true significance began to lodge in my subconscious.

This wasn’t just a young woman making a fashion statement, it was a whole lifestyle choice. I decided to dig deeper.

“You’ve never mentioned this before so why now, at this moment?” I probed.

Her eyes left mine and engaged with a point somewhere on the ceiling. Far from being a relief from the exquisite pleasure of her gaze, this countenance only increased my ardour. As she gazed up in deep thought, the round curves of her irises were evident against the pure white of her sclera; the whole scene was reminiscent of an impressionist masterpiece. Presently she resumed her grip on my soul with a glassy stare.

“I love my new country. I love my new city. I love my new life. Thank you Azizam.” She whispered. Closing her eyes. Two minute globules of clear liquid danced on her long eyelashes before leaping from them onto her yellow wool dress. They stood there like two tiny snow globes for a few seconds then sank into the soft saffron material turning it darker than its surroundings.

I lifted my hand to comfort her but stopped, remembering that touching was not on. Her answer, if one could call it that, was deeper than the deepest ocean trench and I knew it. She was changing in every way and this fundamental desire to alter her physical appearance was massive. Her thigh-length blonde hair, although alluring to the extreme, was the elephant in the room of her appearance. The constant fight to keep it in perfect condition was exhausting to her. The fact that her natural colour was that of freshly mined jet added to the battle.

A complicated regime of dye, wash, brush and repeat took up a heavy chunk of her day. We both knew it was there and we didn’t question the existence of that scalp based pachyderm. She had her reasons and I had my theories. The latter were being proven as we spoke, illustrated by her answer.

“So what you’re saying is that you want to change your appearance to match your new existence.” I cut straight to the quick at the risk of damaging this delicate flower. I justified this by recalling the steadily growing resilience I had observed in her since she arrived on these shores.

She had transformed from a physical and mental basket-case to a fit confident young woman in two years.

It hadn’t been easy and I wasn’t always there for her. However, her progress despite this, was testament to her determination; a determination to ‘make you proud of me’ she would often say. ‘You understand me so well you always have Azizam.

’At this point it was my turn to close my eyes. The last thing I saw were her dark roots, perhaps a couple of centimetres long, either side of her parting, which was just left of centre.

My imagination took over and transported me on a journey of fantasy. I envisaged the one and a half metres of yellow tresses being separated from those black shoots of truth leaving and even spread of thick dark velvet over her beautiful scalp. This could be subtly styled into a cheeky boyish elegance. The problem was it wasn’t a fantasy, it was possible. I jumped in with both feet again.

“Do you want my honest opinion Princess?” I asked, opening my eyes so that they may be hostages to hers once more.

“Yes please don’t hold back I want to know your honest opinion. I trust you with my life, you are my life Azizam.” I took a deep breath in keeping with the intensity of the next words.

“I feel this has been coming on for some time. In two years I have watched you grow like a beautiful plant taken from a cutting in your home city of Tehran. I have watched it being watered by your favourite sweet British rain. I have witnessed it being fed by the gentle Newcastle sunshine. Now it’s time for this flower to bloom to show its true beauty, drop the mask, ditch the disguise and find the real physical you just as you have found the real spiritual you. Show your metaphorical and literal roots and witness the difference it will make.”

I stopped, inhaling again, and held it while waiting for a response. It came and was accompanied by a countenance so charming no one in the world could have resisted it.

“Thank you Azizam I have my answer,” she replied, for she would always keep the Status Quo, locking me out forever.