I cheated on my hairdresser two months ago.

It just happened. It didn't mean a thing. It was purely physical. All the usual affair cliches apply.

For the past six years, I had trusted no one else to run his fingers through my hair.

While I might have sometimes ripped out magazine pages of Katie Holmes' latest hairdo to show him, he usually has his own ideas of what is best for my tresses. Invariably, he is always right.

Once, he sent me home without cutting my hair because he had already planned my next hairstyle and the length was not right yet.

Come back in four weeks, he commanded. I meekly obeyed. You don't mess with the guy who wields sharp instruments next to your face and determines if you can hold your head up high when you face the world.

When I regale friends with tales of my encounters with this hair guru who works in a salon in Orchard Road, they are often shocked - not so much by his bossy ways, but by my unfailing compliance with his edicts.

But this is the guy who manages to tame my slightly wavy hair, knows that I prefer my natural black to highlights and understands my penchant for super short bangs, regardless of whether they make me look like the village idiot.

That is why I have remained faithful to him for so many years. That is, until two months ago.

My hair was overgrown and unmanageable, I was about to go on a work trip and didn't have enough time to visit my guy for a trim.

At least, that was how I rationalised popping into one of those quickie $10 salons.

Under the harsh fluorescent lighting, I questioned my spur-of-the-moment decision. Right after I explained that I needed to trim just the ends, and before I could even find out the stylist's name, she was efficiently snipping away.

About 10 minutes later, the nasty deed was done. I consoled myself with the thought that my little indiscretion would never be discovered by my hairdresser once my hair grew out.

When I finally found time to go for a proper haircut a couple of weeks ago, he took one cursory glance at the back of my head when I plonked myself into the hot seat and said: 'You cut your hair.'

He didn't even need to touch it to know I had strayed. The evidence was right before him, as he quietly pointed out: 'It's lopsided.'

I stuttered and spluttered as I tried to defend myself, but he silenced me with a pained 'it's okay'.

Deep down inside, he must have been crying but he still worked his magic and gave me a flattering layered cut.

I am guessing he has forgiven my little hair affair.

This article was first published in Urban, The Straits Times.