Some homes have a gardener, a cleaner, some might have a Mexican pool cleaner; we have a hairdresser. The only Tiffany I have ever known (outside of Eighties pop music) has been keeping our family groomed for the past three years. I, on the principle that I don’t trust hairdressers with appalling hair, am growing mine and won’t fall prey to her stationery scissors. This morning however my sleep was cut short by the unsettling sound of shears and the sharp sermon of a woman scorned. Tiffany, I can tell you, has been dumped by her boyfriend of two years and her conversation this morning extended beyond the usual “been on holiday?” banter we have come to expect from stylists.

When she was done my mum came into my room. “Bloody hell,” she said. “We’re going to need a new hairdresser.”

I can just imagine the conversation: “It’s not you, Tiffany. It’s me…”