I’VE never met conventional beauty standards. I guess we just don’t run in the same circles. While it’s off judging folk on the gap in their thighs, I’m busy praying that skin is a lot deeper than society would suggest.

What I’m saying, in case you didn’t reach up as my gist grazed your ear, is that I’m not traditionally attractive. But then, I’ve never been one for customs; they only teach us what we already know. In short, I’m the shape of a shambles and my face has all the symmetrical merit of a scalene triangle – and I’m just about fine with that. Call it rising above the zeitgeist, call it utter resignation; whichever, it drives me to the same point on our universal beauty culture. And That point is just north west of fed-the-hell-up.

You’ve heard it all before, from smarter mouths than mine, but isn’t it time that the genetic lottery of physicality is bumped down the value leagues once and for all? Surely we’ve moved past that particular yardstick; hopefully having given it a little toe-poke on the way. Don’t get me wrong, I like to look my best, however bested. YetBut my best is just that: mine. It’s not based on some cut and shut photoshoot, Frankenstein for the fashionable; those glossy pages where reality goes to die. It’s based on how I feel, what I like, and, more often than not, what doesn’t need ironed.

Perhaps I’ve never really appreciated the value of beauty, blessed as I am never to have been charged with its worth. This week, though, I found a way in which even I can contribute to the country’s collective charm – and it all started such a long time ago.

Tucked away behind the bike shops and bikram, in the heart of Glasgow’s west end, PinUps Vintage Hair & Make-up Salon is the place to be, when you need an incredible place to be. You might be forgiven for thinking that when you walk through that cute cottage door into the bunker beyond, that it’s exactly like stepping into the past. It’s not. There’s no Gary Sparrow moment; no colours fading to sepia tones or harps flashing you back in time. No, a trip to PinUps is better than all that – by a factor of 40s.

I’m not really sure what I expected: probably three courses of kitsch with a healthy side of make believe. And I guess I was prepared to feast on that for the afternoon. Instead though, I wandered through the looking glass into an alternative version of reality that makes life outside that door seem black and white in comparison.

Be aware, the salon is an assault on the senses; but a good assault, with cream tea where criminal charges should be. From the moment you enter the courtyard, to the welcoming sight of three hooded hairdryers, angled towards each other, as though their shampoo and sets had just popped away for a jitterbug, you know you’re in for a treat. And, as treats go, this one will soften your cavities.

While I was met at the door by Charly, Mandi and Chloe – three of the five PinUp girls in residence – my ears were met by the sounds of 45s, emanating from the original jukebox that graces the room, and my eyes by the colours and shapes of a dream made real. I don’t know about you, but I dream in sparkles, and this place shines with them. Charly, the salon’s owner and chief hair-wrangler, explained why the world she created feels authentic, when it could so easily seem like a gimmick: it’s because, for the women who work in that space every day, it’s life. There’s no leaving behind the pretty pink uniform on the way out or brushing out the day’s pomade on the bus home. Whether popping to the shops or running to the gym, the women of PinUps sashay all the way in full vintage get-up and go. For them, it’s not just a polite nod to the past, it’s a gift for the present. And at last, the music had stopped and I was the one holding the parcel.

I wasn’t quite sure what I was in for when I arrived at PinUps that afternoon. I guessed I’d be leaving looking different but I hadn’t realised I’d be feeling different, too. You see, Charly and her girls don’t just make over bodies, they make over attitudes. It’s all part of the package, whether you booked in for it or not.

As I perched on the barber shop chair, trying hard to avoid making eye contact with the plainest of Janes in the mirror, the easy chatter that covered everything from serial killers to sticky buns confirmed I wasn’t visiting an ordinary salon. Before long, I was up to speed on how PinUps operated, sipping tea from my china cup, plucking French fancies from the floral cake stand delivered to my side. Somehow,This didn’t feel like a hair appointment; it felt like an awakening.

While Mandi planned my overhaul, which was to be based on a stunning photo of my idol, Bette Davis, Charly prepped my hair and my nerves for what was to come. This wasn’t a pamper, after all, it was an adventure so, as my curls set, I made my way to the other end of the tongs to give vintage hairdressing a try for myself. The gorgeous Chloe was to be my model and, while I was certain she would suit whatever monstrosity I created atop her head, in that moment I really wanted to do her hair justice. With all the patience of a doctor’s surgery, Charly talked me through the process of recreating an immortal style: victory rolls. Curling, pinning, back-combing and swearing – that’s apparently how this budding stylist achieves the look that not only bestows glamour upon the wearer but has a heritage that defies time and fashions. Or maybe that’s just the hairspray. I’m not sure I’ll ever win the war on just sticking a hat over it, but the battle was mine, as Chloe survived with all the hair she had arrived with, and my first-ever victory rolls were practically worthy of the name.

Before long, I was back in the chair, this time for a make-up shakedown with Mandi. There’s a reason make-up professionals are called artists, as Mandi put this Picasso’s face back into an acceptable order. While she worked, using products that might as well have been flamethrowers to this Neanderthal, the PinUp girls spoke about their lives and loves, over the backdrop of clinking teacups and Buddy Holly from the jukebox. There’s no stilted hairdresser chitchat here. It’s all banter, all the time. And I loved it.

Red-lipped and starry-eyed, I stood from that stool more Grace than Kelly, and, after a final do of my hair, it was all over, bar the pouting. Oh, and the costume change. Didn’t I mention that PinUps prides itself on the immersive experience? Short of handing me a cigarette and a stack of war bonds, they did everything possible to ensure I embodied my lifelong icon, and finding me a dress in their expansive wardrobe to complete the look was the icing on the cheesecake.

After only a few hours in the salon, I barely recognised myself. I did, however, recognise the benefits of such a transformation, not just for the poor souls who have to look upon my mush, but also for me. I left PinUps with a spring in my step that only the ides of March should have provided. Much of that can be attributed to the vibrancy of the women who spend their days in that quirky little salon, sharing cake and candour, taking customers back in time to help them go forward.

Beauty isn’t quantifiable, it isn’t an absolute, and it certainly isn’t what modern society would have us believe. Beauty is individual, it’s everything that’s wonderful about you, and, for this beholder, it’s most definitely in those Bette Davis eyes.