On December 15th 1995 I visited a branch of the hairdressers Vidal Sassoon near Oxford Street.
Chatting with the hairdresser I asked if he knew of my nephew, Nick, whom I knew to be training at one of the same company’s shops somewhere in London.
To ease identification, I mentioned that he had lost almost all of his hair in his teens through a nervous disease.
Nobody there could place him.
The next day I got married.
At the wedding lunch my mother mentioned that Nick’s mother, Maureen, was a beauty therapist and had recently had a face lift, perhaps partly because she thought it necessary for someone in her job not to appear lined.
My mother-in-law, Olive, agreed, adding that for Maureen not to look the business would be a bit like having a bald hairdresser.
She knew nothing of Nick’s appearance.