Louis Theroux wants to ask me something: “Are you not curious about my eyebrow?” We are technically in the last minute of our conversation, after which he’ll go to the east London studio next door to be photographed. In fact, we’ll talk for slightly longer, as I have yet to elaborate my theory that everything that went both right and wrong for generation X was, if not caused then certainly represented by him. “I’m not going to tell you now because you didn’t ask,” he continues, but he can’t let it go: “Have you not followed me on Instagram?” (Actually I have, so I know it’s alopecia. He’s had it since January, and worries about it a lot, initially because it made his beard grow into a tiny and slightly lopsided Hitler moustache. Seriously though – you can hardly see it). “I would never ask that,” I say. “Why?” “Because it’s rude.” “It’s not rude to ask. It’s rude to expect an answer.” “OK, I don’t know the difference between those things,” I say.
He pauses, then demonstrates: “Can I ask you a question about your hair? And feel free not to answer.”
