When I was 17, I spent a few months living with my 25 year old boss, Mitul. Living in a trendy apartment, in a trendy part of London, Mitul was obsessed with image. His image. He was always in front of a mirror, playing with his hair, waggling about trying to find his best side, you know. One day he almost broke down in tears. His hair was receding and he'd finally noticed. Now don't get me wrong, we're not talking badly just slightly. With bus-like frequency, Mitul would unleash this life-threatening fact upon me whenever we had 5 minutes at home - each time like it was a new discovery. I of course took this to mean that he wanted me to poke fun at his gargantuan forehead.

I'd just like to say, "sorry Mitul", because at the ripe old age of 25 myself, my hairline is - ironically - also receding. Happily we live in a decade where short hair is trendy so the "Mitul impact" was lost on me the day I realised my genetic curse, but nonetheless this still has had a profound effect on me - signalling the approach of another stage of my life.