Thursday I was at the beautician requesting a Brazilian that wasn't really a Brazilian but rather was the neatness of a Brazilian mixed with the modesty of a 1970s muff. It was important to get the balance right.

"Just nothing porno," I said and she nodded like she knew exactly what I was on about.

She didn't.

I got a racing stripe to rival any Penthouse pet.

Also, it really fucking hurt.

Little Lady was jumping around so much during it that the beautician could see my belly undulating.

"That's incredible!" she remarked. And I agreed because exactly whose pubic hair was being ripped from their lady bits? Maybe they were sympathy kicks.

Thanks, baby.

Then it was time for the spray tan which had to be ultra-natural please.

I think she got it this time.

Although shit, why did I wear the disposable knickers she gave me? Now I've got a tiny g-string tan line. And also, if she was wearing a mask, why the hell wasn't I?

When I did a blood test a few hours later after a really small dinner of chicken and salad, the whopping reading of 9.5 (should be 6.5 or lower) told me I really needed that mask. I obviously ingested a shitload of fine spray particles.

And for bonus points, who can tell me why eating fake tan is bad for a diabetic?

Ding ding ding! That's right. Because it's ultimately made of sugar.

Excellent.

Friday was about the hair on my head.

I knew for sure that this experience was bound to be far more straightforward and pain-free.

Wrong again.

I asked for super blonde with maybe some honey highlights spliced throughout. Then she showed me this darker colour and I was all like, sure, just a few lowlights as well, why not?

"Nice and blonde. Definitely no ash though, okay?" I said.

"No ash. Got it!" said the hairdresser.

I have ash brown hair.

Sigh.

Also, I asked for it to be blow-waved with some unstructured waves at the bottom and holy shit, she turned into my mother circa 1984 and tortured the fuck out of me by knotting not one but three brushes in my hair in some inexplicable technique that didn't actually work.

Sigh.

Saturday. The reason for the debacles of Thursday and Friday.

A photo shoot.

A photo shoot with the husband of a dear friend who is also a dear friend.

A pregnancy photo shoot with a dear friend who is a professional photographer and whom I trusted implicitly to make beautiful photos of me and yet, who, before now, I hadn't counted on showing my baps to.

Or my Penthouse racing stripe.

Well, I knew I'd be sort of naked but sort of maybe not entirely…kind of.

When it came to the crunch, I was really missing my 1970s muff. I had inadvertently paid for the removal of my last shred of modesty.

Sigh.

So what went wrong Saturday? How did that debacle unfold?

Nothing. It didn't.

What happened was my dear friend turned me into a piece of art.

And I am quietly thrilled to have this record of my last pregnancy to treasure forever.

Yes, I'll be sharing but no, they're not ready yet.

But here's something to get your imagination going.

The studio scene where I was transformed into a butterfly….