I was six when I first realised how hideous I looked. My older sister Sue and I had our school photo taken together. My eyes are too close together, my skin sallow and my teeth crooked. She is smiling while I just look anxious.

I was even younger when I became obsessed with hiding my profile: from the side my face is flat, like a pancake. At infant school, I made sure whenever I spoke to anyone that I was facing them. By the time I was in high school, I had developed a fully fledged phobia of mirrors, and came up with a way of going into the cloakroom (sliding along one wall) without being able to see myself.

There was a window, during my 20s, when I thought I looked OK, but I found out I was, in fact, short-sighted. Wearing my new contact lenses to my body-conditioning class, I remember the shock of being confronted with myself in a full-length mirror for the first time. Even today, when I wash my hands I never look up. I hate hotels because of the mirrors everywhere (even in lifts!) that catch me unawares. I never try things on in shops, as I don't want to glimpse my dimpled thighs or saggy bottom, so I have lots of things that neither fit nor suit me. I hate the hairdresser's. I hate travelling because of my terrified passport photo. My husband rarely sees me naked (I had a breast reduction when I was 29 and hate the scars) or without make-up, and my dismay at the way I look is hard on him. I am not afraid of ageing because I didn't look that great when I was 20, and at least now I don't have spots.

· Liz Jones's Diary, by Liz Jones, is published by Quadrille, £6.99