You've got to admire a woman who declares, "It takes a lot of money to look this cheap" (certain accessory shops clearly not having reached Tennessee at the time of speaking), and then opens her own theme park to celebrate all things naff.

It's a beautiful philosophy.

It's the same one that inspired such treasured institutions of trash as nail jewellery and Nancy Dell'Olio.

While the Dalai Lama may look outwardly more insightful (though it's fair to say his robes give a slight advantage in the wisdom-giving arena when compared to a canary-coloured, sequinned cleavage showcase), I believe Dolly possesses shrewd perception beyond the usual realms of country and western theology.

She stores it all in her hair.

Oh, and what wonderful hair it is.

So enormous, so impervious to inclement weather and rogue missile attacks. And most importantly, so blonde.

Today, Dolly, I am saluting you, for one of my all-time favourite quotable quotes.

I'd quite like it written on my gravestone, possibly sponsored by Jerome Russell home-bleaching kits.

"I'm not offended by all the dumb blonde jokes," she claims, "because I know I ain't dumb. I also know I ain't blonde."

Just typing the above has made me weep a little.

Yesterday, there was a terrible disaster, an unfortunate aberration in my ironically non-blonde, but definitely dumb, mind.

If I was to compose a country song about it, it would go thus: "I woke up this morning…da dum da dum….

"Got the bored-broke-Sunday blues….

"Da dum da dum… had some dye in the cupboard that I'd bought four months previously because it was on special offer and had put away then forgotten to use…

"da dum da dum… thought here's an idea…

"da dum da dum…. I fancy a change….

"Da dum da dum… but it came out terr'ble, like a dead gerbil, and now I look deranged… (cue banjo solo)."

I'm no stranger to the botched dye-job — indeed, they've been an accepted part of my life since I was eight, when I first dabbled in the art to go ginger for a Spice Girls birthday party.

Over the years I have been purple, red, grey and obligatory hat.

But for the past two years, I have been a certified Parton-ite, and all the happier for it.

It was the colour of custard, vanilla ice cream and the cheesy filling inside Tuc sandwich biscuits (everyone loves you when your hair looks like confectionary. They like to imagine if there were ever a worldwide disaster, you'd be the first one they'd eat in the famine).

I discovered that it's hard to be a grumpy, or melancholy, or a complete bitch, when your hair looks like it's constantly about to start singing The Sun Has Got His Hat On (hip hip hip hooray).

Nobody ever lost me in a crowd, my lightbulb-coloured barnet becoming a beacon over a sea of muddy brunettes and honeyed highlights.

I believe I actually avoided being run over on many occasions where a mousy miss would have been less lucky.

There was a sticky situation over some stolen porridge a few months back, but apart from that, life as a platinum blonde was rosy.

Or daffodilly, even.

Not any longer, thanks to a certain chemist's lack of awareness concerning the marked difference between golden blonde and the colour of the fluffy dust mulch you empty out of the Hoover.

On revealing it to my flatmates, the responses were as supportive as I could have hoped for.

"Ooh", said one, "you're the exact colour of a sofa my mum had in the 80s", "It's not a real colour. I think they've made it up." said another, while up-the-road-neighbour declared it "very very faded purple".

Personally, I'm calling it mushroom, in the hope that foodie appeal will redeem it from the murky depths of hair don'ts.

I am also washing it three times a day with Fairy Liquid and leaving the house in a headscarf.

And if my fading efforts fail, Wikipedia informs me Dolly Parton owns a wig company.

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