Still not had my hair cut since Betty.
Trimmed the week before she was born and self dyed six times, curled/straightened daily and hacked at occasionally with a pair of orange handled kitchen shears. Routinely buy four bottles of shampoo to treat frizzy, dry, damaged and brittle elements of rebelling barnet.
Oh shut up. It's long, no one sees the ends. And my haircuts are free.
When I was a hippy at uni, carefully honing my splendidly punchable adult self, I spent three years in flip flops regardless of weather or season. I also only ever wore one earring. I know. Blame Joss Stone. However my idiotic studentlyness did, fortunately, result in dry, peely, cracked feet - one of the best things that has ever happened to my body. Sure, the pile of thick yellow skin scales I leave at the foot of the chair I've been sitting in might not be the calibre of soft furnishing most aspire to, but you can usually pass them off as dropped flakes of muesli. And occasionally I have myself, mid chomp, mistaken them for dropped flakes of muesli...