One month, two hairdos. “I’m the best hairdresser in the world,” Michael Charalambous proclaims as he wields a pair of scissors above my head. “I don’t do British Hairdresser of the Year because I’m the best there is.” He purveys camp grandeur along with his undeniably sharp haircuts (he chisels my hair into a bob that Sassoon would have been proud of). This is highly entertaining. “You’re far too dark,” he assesses as I walk through the door of Nyumba, his salon in London’s Mayfair, “and your hair needs to be shorter, to accentuate your nose.” He is so convincing that I let him do the cut, and I am pleased with it to this day. Another week, another hairdresser. Mark Hill looks a bit like a former member of Take That, perma-tanned, with a beanie hat pulled low over his ears, which puts me in mind of the Craig David caricature in Bo’ Selecta!. He is northern (from Hull) and has twice won British Hairdresser of the Year — it’s usually a London-centric affair, so he is all the more unusual for this. He is also down to earth and full of energy, and gives me a blow-dry to die for. “My new haircare range is going to be like Crème de la Mer,” he claims, with a hint of bluster. I wonder whether he is exaggerating slightly; after all, the range will be stocked in Boots. But, heck, he’s a hairdresser, and like DJs, rock stars and photographers, a modicum of ego is part of the job description.