Everywhere I go, I am being stalked by mullets. Walk into a pub in the vicinity of Hackney, east London, and you, like me, will be haunted by the sight of them. Queue for a Fred Again concert and you’ll see an ocean of the things. Go to a rugby match at Twickenham Stadium, and there will be as many mullets as there are team shirts. Whether you know it as the mullet or the “Kentucky waterfall” or “beaver paddle”, they’ll have been in your sightline as of late. The hairstyle, which involves a shorter crop at the front, top and sides, and longer in the back, is currently being paraded by on-screen heartthrobs like Paul Mescal, Australian actor Jacob Elordi and American movie star Timothée Chalamet. In the world of sport, Spanish footballer Hector Bellerin, British rugby player Joe Marler and Formula One driver Valtteri Bottas have all rocked the hairstyle this year (and that’s not forgetting about 90 per cent of “Aussie rules” football players have mullets right now too). But its ubiquity in modern pop culture goes back a few years. Singer Lil Nas X, for example, turned up at the MTV Awards in 2021 wearing a curly, layered version of the hairstyle. Women have been wearing the coiffure even longer. Pop culture mainstays like Rihanna and Zendaya have both worn mullets on the red carpet, in 2013 and 2016, respectively. By 2021, Miley Cyrus was donning the style. That same year, Vogue hailed the mullet as the unlikely star of modern street style. The mullet has also stormed down fashion week runways, with Junya Watanabe, Stella McCartney and Alexander McQueen all incorporating the hairstyle into their 2022 shows. If that wasn’t enough proof of the mullet going mainstream, a failsafe method for judging something’s popularity is when that trendy thing gets banned in schools, or there’s a level of moral panic about it. That happened last month when a Sunderland schoolboy’s mullet was decided to be so “extreme” that he was put in isolation and ordered to chop it off. Meanwhile, even more Brits are trying to catch up with Australian mullet culture: a doctor from Dorset made headlines this week as he has been growing his locks in preparation for the world mullet growing championships in Australia, a contest that he said was “widely considered to be the Everest of the competitive mullet growing world”. We’ve all gone mullet mad. Though the name itself wasn’t coined until two decades ago – the Oxford English Dictionary credits the Beastie Boys’ 1994 song “Mullet Head” for the popularisation of the word – the mullet existed long before that. In his book Mullet Madness, Alan Henderson writes that prehistoric people may have figured out that having their hair cut shorter at the front and longer at the back meant they could keep their hair out of their eyes and their necks still toasty. What’s more, Ancient Greek texts referenced men with mullet-style cuts, while depictions of Greek gods that date back to the 6th century suggest that the hairstyle existed even then. In certain indigenous populations in the US, long hair symbolises power and a connection with the divine, and a version of the mullet – the front spiked and the back long – is considered a traditional style in tribes of the western United States like the Blackfoot and Crow. The version of the mullet we see in popular culture today, though, strongly harks back to David Bowie’s tangerine-orange waterfall-style mullet worn as his alter ego Ziggy Stardust. In the Seventies, it set a cultural precedent for the mullet as a fashion statement. Back then, the hairstyle was subversive. It spurred strong reactions from the more conservatively coiffed elite because it refused to conform to any one standard: the mullet is both long and short; masculine and feminine; somehow, scruffy while slick. The mullet’s return could be seen as a happy accident. In lockdown, men would scissor away at their locks, crafting eccentric hairstyles out of sheer boredom, sharing pictures of the resulting cut to their respective WhatsApp group chats. But that comedy mullet has since died out. A fashionable, en-vogue hairstyle has stuck around. In searching for the perfect modern mullet, men have downed tools and turned to the professionals for help. Ryan Lewis, owner of Club 13 barbershop in Hull, says that about one-third of his customers are opting for mullets. “Its presence within combat and contact sports alone conveys a modern masculinity that has trickled down into the mainstream,” he says, adding that the “harsher cuts” seen in rugby culture are being cancelled out by the more subtle, feathery mullets worn by Mescal et al. “The modern mullet is bringing a more natural and effortless look with a softer and less obnoxious shape.” James Doyle, the manager of Bristol barbershop Harry Blades and Angry Daves, says it’s not just people who work in non-corporate environments who are taking the plunge, either: it’s becoming workplace-appropriate. “You would think it’s only the musicians or creatives,” he says. “But I’ve got a couple of accountants that are rocking mullets. Anyone and everyone seems to be jumping on the trend.” The mullet trend allows men to be more expressive and embrace their individuality. I had a sixth form student come in the other day and ask for a mullet – young men are becoming more daring with their hair Samantha Perkins, salon owner and lecturer The style has become so sought after that hairdressing schools are changing the way they train stylists, too. Samantha Perkins is the owner of the salon Hair by Sam and lectures at the London Hairdressing Academy, and says that the academy has launched special masterclasses in the art of cutting mullets due to popular demand. “It’s very technical,” she explains. “It’s cut with scissors and razors, so without using clippers – so it’s already a level three cut without a doubt. Students really need to understand the hair type to execute the look.” Perkins adds that the supremacy of the cookie-cutter “short back and sides” haircut that has dominated men’s hairdressing trends for the past decade is on its way out. “The mullet trend allows men to be more expressive and embrace their individuality,” she says. “I had a sixth form student come in the other day and ask for a mullet – young men are becoming more daring with their hair.” Michael Kent, a stylist at Blue Tit hair salon in London, agrees that the popularity of the mullet hairstyle has opened up a new way of self-expression for men. “Men’s hair has always been so bland and [the mullet] has allowed people to really embrace their individuality. In popular culture, a lot of people are more comfortable in their sexuality and diversifying so much. We’re seeing a lot of clients coming in and asking for a cut like Timothée Chalamet’s. Before, people would ask for Ed Sheeran’s hair, so you can see how it’s changing.” The mullet is not just limited to men, either. The coif has long been donned by famous women (Scarlett Johansson, Joan Jett and Dolly Parton have all worn variations of the style over the years), and both Perkins and Kent say they have women customers asking for the same. “The mullet is a genderless cut,” says Kent. “Women and men are really embracing it – it’s an androgynous look.” And if you want to try the mullet yourself, Kent assures me it suits most people: “It’s like a wig you can put on anyone!” Read More Women’s scarves and crocheted ties - what is Robert Peston wearing now? I salute Dolly Parton’s beauty routine – no one sees me without my make-up How Naomi Campbell proved all her haters wrong – including me Women’s scarves and crocheted ties - what is Robert Peston wearing now? I salute Dolly Parton’s beauty routine – no one sees me without my make-up How Naomi Campbell proved all her haters wrong – including me

Forget about the funny pages. If Kay Powell wrote for your paper, you dove straight into the death notices.

Seven years ago, I was at my local antenatal class preparing for the birth of my firstborn. In my forties and armed with a coloured birthing ball, I looked around and gasped. All the other soon-to-be-mums were at least a decade younger than me. Some were nearly half my age. It briefly panicked me. Would I make any friends? Why did I leave it so late to have kids? Was I doing something wrong? In hindsight, though, I had no reason to worry: your forties is absolutely the best decade in which to have your first child. According to data published last week in The Daily Telegraph, the number of women becoming first-time mothers in their forties has increased in recent years: today, one in 25 UK births is to a woman aged 40-plus. That’s a lot of women just like me, despite the fact that getting pregnant over 35 gets you labelled as someone of “advanced maternal age”. That might sound harsh until you remember that older pregnancies used to be termed “geriatric” – thank God that’s been phased out. I’ve never regretted waiting until my forties, even if I had been trying for children for years by that point. My story is undeniably unique: my partner Alex took his own life while we were doing IVF, but that didn’t stop me from continuing to try to get pregnant. The maternal call was strong, so I decided to carry on with the process using Alex’s frozen sperm. Today I have two beautiful daughters with him: Lola, seven, and Liberty, five. It is an understatement to say I was ready for a baby at 40. I was grounded. Confident. Unlike when I was in my twenties or thirties, I knew exactly who I was and what made me tick. I had life experience. I no longer got FOMO. I didn’t even drink, having been through hell and back to become sober 20 years earlier. My career was fully off the ground, and therapy had helped me identify the family dysfunction I knew to ditch for the sake of my kids. I also wasn’t worried about my body bouncing back after the birth. I just desperately wanted to be a mum. Of course, there are all sorts of advantages to having children in your twenties and thirties. A huge bonus is that you’re simply more fertile. According to research, 31 is the magic age to have a baby – you’re still as fertile as in your twenties, but you also have more money. I’m sure motherhood in your fifties is great, too – although using your own eggs is highly unlikely, unless you froze them at some point before you turned 35. It means that some older mums often turn to donor eggs. Thinking back on my twenties and thirties, I don’t know how I would have managed motherhood. I don’t think I was ready to put my own needs on hold. I can’t imagine how hard it would have been to juggle work and my children, especially with the spiralling costs of childcare. I do accept that there are greater risks inherent in waiting to have kids. Both the quantity and quality of eggs dwindle. The rates of failed fertilisation, miscarriage and birth defects rise with age. There’s also the social pressure that comes with not having children early – you’re forced into endless conversations about the “ticking timebomb” of your fertility, and expected to fend off probing inquiries about your biological clock. The British Fertility Society advises women to start trying for a baby by the age of 32 at the latest, for a 90 per cent guarantee of having a child without resorting to IVF. But this advice simply wouldn’t have worked for me – I was determined to find the right person to have children with, and that didn’t happen until I was 35. When mine and Alex’s attempts to naturally conceive failed, and then Alex died, only at that point did I know I had the maturity to go it alone. I do have some regrets – I wish I’d frozen my eggs at the peak of my fertility in my mid-twenties, for instance (this process costs between £4,000 and £7,000 in the UK). But otherwise, having children in my forties was the right thing to do. Yes, I had my wobbles. I remember sobbing on the bathroom floor after yet another failed pregnancy test. I would berate myself for leaving it so late. I had to force myself to remember that many women experience fertility struggles in their twenties and thirties, too. All of those anxious feelings, though, flew out the window once I had my first child. When I left the hospital to begin parenthood alone, a new bag of nappies in hand, I didn’t have a meltdown. I was just so grateful that I’d had a baby, especially when the odds seemed so stacked against me. Sleepless nights trying to coax my child back to sleep were what I had most desired. It was all so good, in fact, that I went on to have a second child in my forties. I had a spare embryo in a freezer in St Petersburg. Now I call her Liberty. Every day since becoming a mum, I have embraced the mess and chaos, and appreciate every minute. I’m sure my younger self would cringe at the thought of me spending my evenings helping my children with their homework. But I’m proud to say that I’m living my best life. Read More Vanessa Hudgens addresses pregnancy speculation amid Cole Tucker engagement Rachel Bilson reveals she’s suffered multiple miscarriages Pregnant woman has maternity photo shoot in hospital before giving birth Hailey Bieber responds to ‘disheartening’ pregnancy rumours Like Rebecca Adlington, I also lost my baby at 20 weeks Britney Spears reveals she had an abortion while dating Justin Timberlake

I’m standing outside my local cafe in west London, looking bedraggled as I’ve been up since 6.45am making the dreaded school packed lunch. It’s nothing exotic – margherita pizza for Lola, who is a fussy eater, and plain pasta with cheddar cheese and corn on the cob for Liberty. There were all the snacks to pack, too – sadly, no chunks of carrot, just Pom-Bears and breadsticks. I am buying a croissant to add to one of the lunch boxes when I bump into the mum of one of my daughter’s friends. “Oh darling,” she tells me, “it’s all ‘white food’. Not good.” I shrug my shoulders knowingly, then stupidly ask her what’s in her kids’ packed lunches. “Sushi bento box,” comes her instant reply. “Crudites and organic hummus. Japanese panda crackers. Seaweed crackers. Dim sum. Oh, and sandwiches cut into little shapes – I do hearts and stars.” Right. That’s a good start to my morning; I now feel totally inadequate. When it comes to my children, I am a slave to the packed lunch. But gone are the days of stuffing a hard-boiled egg, a jam sandwich or processed cheese triangles into a box – as was the case when I was a child. Even apples have been voted a prehistoric lunchbox item by 17 per cent of parents. Instead, packed lunches are now a status symbol. The actor Hilary Duff, for instance, gives her son caviar for a snack – and it’s not that unusual. One in 10 parents (9 per cent) choose sushi and, according to a recent survey by Amazon Fresh, 26 per cent of parents take a photo of their children’s packed lunch for Instagram. A third (33 per cent) have also admitted they’ve taken a sneak peek inside another child’s lunchbox – and believe me, it’s often to silently snack-shame another parent. I can’t help but wonder if food and snacks are a kind of modern litmus test of parenting. But does it really make you a better parent if you give your child home-cooked wild keta salmon and wholemeal rice in a thermal container for lunch? The playground politics of packed lunches are complex. Parents are constantly criticised for sending inappropriate lunches to school. The TV chef Jamie Oliver once said unhealthy packed lunches are tantamount to child abuse. At the other extreme, parents are finding the time to stamp cucumbers with flowers and dice dried herbs into them for their kid’s bento boxes – then post them online. There seems to be no middle ground. Christina (not her real name) is a 40-year-old PA and tablescaping specialist whose child attends a prep school in west London’s Notting Hill. She makes all of her daughter’s packed lunches from scratch, and it’s always organic produce. “I always wanted to go that extra mile,” she tells me. “My motivation to do this was never to be ‘Queen Bee mum’ – it was to make my daughter happy and proud of me.” The “presentation” and “the taste” of the packed lunches, she says, is “super important” – to such an extent that it needs to be “Instagram-worthy” and “fun” in order to encourage her daughter to eat healthily. One of her lunch box specialities, she adds, is mini American hot dogs “decorated with a little flag and a drizzle of ketchup”. “I know it is always going to be flagged by other mothers because the school is very competitive,” she continues. “This dish goes around the mums like wildfire because mums always want to outdo other mums.” If I put out a post saying how much fibre children should be having, I get people replying saying that ‘it’s unrealistic’ and ‘we can’t do that as well as everything else’ when it comes to kids’ foods. It ends up with parents pitting themselves off against one another with food Charlotte Stirling-Reed, child and baby nutrionist While school playground rivalry among parents used to be about pigtails and bows in your children’s hair, Christina says, now it’s about lunch and snacks. “Kids have a much more sophisticated palate,” she explains. “They’re exposed to a lot more than a ham and cheese sandwich. The playing field has widened, and the bar has been set higher due to social media, and Deliveroo and Uber Eats – everything has become more instantaneous.” For other parents, it’s about making a packed lunch as wholesome as possible – something my children would scoff at. Ella Mills, the founder of the plant-based food brand Deliciously Ella, tells me she has found “batch cooking” easiest for her daughter’s packed lunches at nursery. “It’s a real rush getting everyone dressed, ready and out of the door each morning,” she says. “Plus, thinking of something to cook at 7am that’s got no nuts, no sesame in it [due to possible nut allergies], that I’ll know they’ll eat, and that doesn’t take a little while to make. So I make huge batches of veggie bolognese, bean chilli or sweet potato and chickpea stews plus big batches of grains, then simply heat a portion up and pop it in a thermos. Something that’s pre-made makes a world of difference.” Other parents call in the professionals. Chef Meryem Korkut Avci of Mary’s Mobile Chef Services does “meal preps” for elite customers in west and north London. She sends over an ingredients list and will then come to your home once a week and cook for the whole family – a two-hour session is £120 for six dishes (on the seventh day, her clients usually get a takeaway). For packed lunches, she says gluten-free muffins are popular. “Also egg or chicken fried rice, chilli con carne with tortilla, little mini puff pastry rolls with cheese – or sausage rolls.” She’ll even wash up – and says clients use her because “they don’t have time” or are “bored of their own food”. Dr Megan Rossi, a gut health scientist, bestselling author and founder of the website The Gut Health Doctor and The Gut Health Clinic in London, says an ideal packed lunch would contain something from each of the super-six plant groups: “Legumes (such as chickpeas), vegetables, whole grains (such as oats and barley), fruit, nuts and seeds and herbs and spices. Hitting all these is a tricky one but for optimal health, the goal is for them to have at least one from each of these most days. It’s a great target to have in mind!” She advises “hiding legumes and whole grains in sweet treats like black bean brownies with porridge oats,” and says that “while not a long-term strategy to keep plants a secret, it can help build some confidence and comfort with those plants (as well as training childrens’ taste buds) for you to reveal when the time is right.” For chocolate lovers – like my daughter, Lola – Dr Rossi also suggests “making your own chocolate bars with dried fruits, popcorn, seeds and nuts included for extra dietary fibres and a more satiating treat”. I personally can’t see how I would fit that into my schedule. But for many parents healthy eating is a full-time job. Children may need to be offered a specific food “around 10 times” before they accept it, according to research, while Dr Rossi adds that it means nothing to a child if you merely tell them food is healthy or unhealthy. “Try explaining to them from a young age about the importance of their gut microbes,” she says. “Tell them they need to feed the little pet bugs in their tummy with broccoli, for instance, to help keep them strong.” I often feel ashamed that Lola is a fussy eater – though I find solace in the fact that her younger sister isn’t. Dr Rossi claims that what mums-to-be eat during pregnancy may also affect the kind of food your child will have a taste for. “That could play a part with fussing eating,” she says, but adds that she’s not keen on “mum guilt”: “Pregnancy is hard enough without the added pressure of nutrition.” Charlotte Sterling-Reed, “The Baby and Child Nutritionist”, runs a fussy eater course, and assures me that “parents are not bad parents if they are struggling with a fussy eater at home”. She says she is currently witnessing a backlash from “defensive parents” who are fed up with being told to live up to the “ideal” of being a perfect parent. “If I put out a post saying how much fibre children should be having, I get people replying saying that ‘it’s unrealistic’ and ‘we can’t do that as well as everything else’ when it comes to kids’ foods,” she says. “It ends up with parents pitting themselves off against one another with food.” An extravagant lunchbox is also not realistic for the majority of parents, she adds, “whether working or not, and nor should it be – there is a way to find a balance”. She says that a middle ground is possible. “As parents, [we can] pick something that is balanced but that also works for the family situation. This constant comparison between two extremes on social media makes us feel like we are failing in multiple aspects of parenting.” I don’t think I’m ever going to be posting my kids packed lunches on Instagram. I also know that sliced pepper fingers won’t get eaten even if I arrange them in the shape of a smiley face. More than anything though, I won’t feel guilty about my kids’ food habits any more, or the lengths I sometimes go to to get them to eat healthy – I once told my daughters that if they didn’t drink their freshly squeezed orange juice, their legs would fall off. And, you know what, it worked! Read More Keir Starmer is keeping his children out of the public eye – but that won’t stop them being privileged I’m a jellyfish parent – my run-in with a tiger mum was terrifying Kate Moss credits her stress-free life to ‘moonbathing’ – can eccentric wellness regimes help me too? Vasectomy and British men in their twenties: ‘Young, none and done’ Why taking a mental health day could be bad… for your mental health What the world’s happiest children tell us about where Britain is going wrong

In 1999, I was sent to interview Naomi Campbell. Friendly, she was not. In fact, 24 years on, she remains one of the most difficult people I’ve ever interviewed. I now know why. Even though I worked in fashion for 20 years, it took the recent documentary The Super Models for me to understand the unique challenges Campbell has faced. This is because I am a naive white woman. As anyone who has watched the four-part series will attest, despite all occupying the highest echelons of modelling, it transpires that Cindy, Christy, Linda and Naomi were never actually equal. Some are richer. Some are healthier. Some found love. And one had to deal with a lifetime of systemic racism. Life doesn’t deal all of us the same hand, even if, on the face of it, we are equally deserving. No matter that you are one of the world’s top models: sometimes, life still gives you lemons. And that’s when you are faced with a choice – to let it sour you, or to make lemonade. Beyoncé may have made an album about this, but Naomi Campbell has made it the defining principle of her entire career. Her 40-year reign at the top of her profession reminds us that there are supermodels, and there are SUPER models. Even Cindy, Christy and Linda would probably admit that out of the four of them, their friend is most deserving of the title. For not only has Campbell, 53, carved out a stellar career as a model: she’s also an activist and philanthropist, an advocate for social change who hasn’t just walked the walk (and what a walk), but has put in the time and done the hard work. As one of the first Black models to achieve supermodel status, Campbell broke barriers and opened doors for models of colour, changing perceptions of beauty in the fashion industry and paving the way for more diversity and representation. It is far from perfect now, but few would argue that she was a pioneer. Ever since being discovered as a schoolgirl in Covent Garden, London, at the age of 15, Campbell has been changing the game, despite said game being stacked against her. Aged 17, she became the first Black model to be on the cover of British Vogue since 1966. Aged 27, she became the first Black model to open a Prada show (one of the show season’s biggest badges of honour). Aged 29, years after her white peers, she signed her first contract with a cosmetics company – a division of Wella – to launch a scent. How old was Campbell when she scored her first beauty contract? Forty-eight. Despite being the most famous Black model of her time, Campbell never earned the same money as her peers, because those lucrative beauty contracts – the ones that bring in the serious money – weren’t given to her. “There is prejudice,” she admitted in 1997. “This business is about selling, and blonde, blue-eyed girls are what sells.” In 2013, she joined with fellow Black models to form an advocacy group, Diversity Coalition, penning an open letter to the governing bodies of global fashion weeks to call out high-profile designers who used just one or no models of colour in that season’s shows and calling it a “racist act”. Even though it could have jeopardised her career to do so, she spoke up, in the hope that those coming up behind her wouldn’t have to suffer the same prejudices. While it would be an egregious form of whitewashing to gloss over the disadvantages Campbell has faced, it would be just as much of a disservice to paint her as a victim. For she is not a victim: she is an absolute queen. For every lemon lobbed her way, she’s countered with a dose of sugar, making lemonade where less resilient women would have crumbled. She is the queen of turning negatives into positives: think of her tumble at the Vivienne Westwood show in 1993, when she fell off her nine-inch platforms and landed in a fit of giggles. Instagram was yet to exist, but the incident still went “viral”, with other designers begging her to fake a fall in their shows, to garner the same publicity. When social media did come to exist, Campbell swiftly proved she was a natural. While some models proved themselves to be only marginally less vapid than anticipated, Campbell’s deadpan humour was a delicious surprise. Who can forget 2019’s “Airport Routine”, a YouTube video as seminal as “Charlie Bit My Finger”? ‘I do not care what people think of me,” she says, donning disposable gloves and swabbing down her tray table with a Dettol wipe. In the supermodel documentary, she pokes fun at herself again, this time when experiencing a hot flush during a fashion shoot. “Lord!” she says, pacing agitatedly while looking unfeasibly more gorgeous than most women in the throes of a sweat. “One minute I’m fine, the next I’m a furnace. Why do men not get menopause?” Clearly, Naomi isn’t perfect. She was convicted of assault on four occasions between 1998 and 2009, leading her to take anger management therapy. She has battled addictions to alcohol and cocaine. Last month, she faced a backlash for her collaboration with the fast fashion giant Pretty Little Thing, with critics pointing out that as a woman of colour, she should be especially sensitive to the plight of low-paid garment workers in a way that Molly Mae Hague, presumably, should not. “Do they say anything when other caucasian models have worked for fast fashion brands?” Campbell clapped back in an interview. “They’ve not said a word. So why are they coming for me?” However often they come for her, Campbell will always roll with the punches, pick herself back up again, and keep fighting. She is a survivor: a south London girl done good, a woman who has had to work harder than many of her peers simply to get to the same place, yet has still surpassed them. Of all the supermodels, only Naomi is recognised all over the world, from Gravesend to Ghana. As her friend and mentor, Edward Enninful, once said, “Naomi represents what is possible.” The world doesn’t need another famous female white role model. But it unquestionably needs more Black ones. This is why the V&A’s forthcoming exhibition – the first ever to be dedicated to a solo model – is such welcome news. Launching in June 2024, in addition to displaying 100 curated outfits Campbell has worn throughout her modelling years (a reason alone to visit) the exhibition will also cover her philanthropic work and activism. For Naomi is more than fashion. She is history: Black history, a subject too often seen through a white lens, or not documented as thoroughly as it should be. Above all, she is the ultimate embodiment of the saying “be the thing you wish to see”, a role model for any girl who aspires to be strong and successful. Now a mother to two children of her own, at 53, Naomi Campbell is at the top of her game. That she had to fight so hard to get there no doubt makes her achievement feel all the sweeter. She fought so the daughters of others wouldn’t have to. That’s what queens do. V&A exhibition ‘NAOMI’ will run from 22 June 2024 to 6 April 2025 Read More Naomi Campbell: British supermodel’s career to be honoured in new V&A exhibition Naomi Campbell opens up about past drug and alcohol addiction It’s 2023 and we still defer to pretty people. 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In the fallout from last year’s overturning of Roe v Wade, the legislation that secured abortion rights in the US, a great many young American men simultaneously did a quite radical thing. They took to social media to intimately document themselves getting a vasectomy, to prove it was a simple and painless act. One was vegan bodybuilder and influencer Brian Turner, who was certain from around the age of 22 that he’d never want children. He acted on his stance, aged 30, and made some genuinely great content in the process. “The reaction was positive,” he tells me. “A few people commented in disbelief, calling me crazy names or saying, ‘You’re no longer a man – you chopped your balls off.’ But they don’t bother me. I have a thick skin.” It started a global discussion on vasectomies, chiefly around how men can step up and take the burden of contraception away from their female partners forever. Adam, a 35-year-old father of two from Brighton, had the same desire around the same time: “I had a growing guilt about never really fully taking responsibility for contraception. Apart from condoms, all the solutions are for women, and they all seem to have pretty gnarly side effects. It seemed like the decent thing to do, to try to take on the responsibility.” But what of younger British men, who absolutely, definitely don’t want children, who know they want to be what I call “none and done”? For them, although the hurdles are curiously higher and their reasoning more diverse, the same desire to make an informed decision about their body exists. Britain has never had a big national conversation about the vasectomy, the way America – a place where some states even offered them for free in the wake of the Supreme Court’s historic verdict – clearly has in recent years. “The vasectomy was thought to be illegal here until around the Sixties, and only came on the NHS in the early Seventies,” explains Dr Georgia Grainger, a historian of vasectomy. Before this, the concept of men choosing to sterilise themselves was – in her words – “murky”, owing to many of the key doctors and campaigners evangelising the process also being supporters of eugenics. It was actually the beloved broadcaster Michael Parkinson who, in Grainger’s eyes, did the most to burst bubbles on the subject. “He was open about having a vasectomy back in 1972 when it was still very uncommon. He did an interview about it that was on the front page of the first issue of Cosmopolitan magazine. It definitely brought awareness and also dispelled some myths – that it would affect a man’s masculinity or even cause things like a higher-pitched voice”. While the procedure has undoubtedly become more common, I’m not sure that we as a society know a huge amount more about it than in the Seventies. The good news for men is that the procedure is more successful than ever. Doctors reported in March this year that, after surveying 94,000 patients, only 0.2 per cent of men get what’s known as “chronic scrotal pain”. It is generally seen as being more than 99 per cent effective as a form of birth control. The bad news is that there’s still a lot of misinformation around it – from daft macho ideas that it decreases your testosterone levels or sex drive (it doesn’t) to the more assimilated notion you hear a lot: that, similar to an intrauterine device (IUD) with women, it’s easy to undo (it isn’t sadly, not all reversals work, they get less successful over time plus they’re significantly more expensive too). In reality, a vasectomy is quick, carried out under local anaesthetic and takes around 15 minutes. Today, most are what’s known as “scalpel-free”, meaning the incision is so tiny (only 2-4mm) that it doesn’t require stitches. The two tubes that carry sperm from your testicles are severed (hence the colloquial term “the snip”) and closed. Post-surgery, men are encouraged to rest for a couple of days, to apply ice packs to their scrotum and – if possible – wear a jock strap that’s slightly too small to ease any swelling. And that’s it. “The most common question I get asked is, “Do you still cum?’”, says Gregory, who had a vasectomy in January. “It’s funny how so many people think you’ll never ejaculate again after a vasectomy. The truth is: the difference isn’t noticeable.” In fact, sperm is still produced, but it’s discharged internally and absorbed by the membrane around the epididymis (the coiled tube behind each testicle) in a totally natural process. The body still produces semen, which is ejaculated but it no longer contains sperm – although it’s said that a man needs to ejaculate on his own a good number of times before the presence of sperm totally vanishes. “I did hear rumours about ‘40 w***s’,” confirms Gregory, “but I just stuck with the doctor’s deadlines and the sperm test came back clear four months later.” Yet, while the procedure has some fringe areas of conjecture, one important aspect is dramatically less well known: men – especially young men – won’t automatically be granted a vasectomy if they choose to have one. There’s huge variation in the UK, based on regional NHS procedures and resources, plus, “a lot depends on the individual doctor, unfortunately” according to Grainger. Some areas don’t offer them, meaning having to go private and pay an often prohibitively expensive £600. But even simply having the autonomy to choose is also a grey area. “A lot of younger men, especially if they’re unmarried or don’t have children, really have to push to get a doctor to take them seriously,” says Grainger. “We often think of that kind of pushback as being something women get within their reproductive healthcare, but I’ve heard a lot of men share their experiences of having to go to multiple doctors to find one to agree to refer them for a vasectomy, just because they ‘might change their mind’.” This seems like quite a significant flashpoint, given that all the urologists we spoke to confirmed a definite movement of younger people wanting the snip. “Traditionally, the typical age of a man seeking a vasectomy would be 35-40 years old,” states Dr Peter Quinn who performs the procedure for Vasectomy NI. “However we are finding more and more younger men in their twenties are looking for a permanent method of contraception.” Luckily, I didn’t encounter a single man who had any regrets or who had “changed their mind”. What I found instead were more men making an informed choice around their own reproductive health, from a variety of backgrounds, viewpoints and life situations. Some for example, like Simon, are single and dating. He had his tubes snipped aged 28, while in a long-term relationship that subsequently ended. Does he have any regrets? “Absolutely not – I really want to make that clear.” Despite being from a big family with plenty of cousins whom he loves, he’s felt like he’s known he never wanted children himself “from as far back as my teens”. Now aged 30, he’s starting to date again. He doesn’t declare his snipped status on the dating app he uses, but does bring it up quickly, in case there’s any awkward confusion. “Not wanting to have kids is a pretty big part of who I am, I feel like I talk about it all the time anyway without needing to advertise it.” Ray, who is also young, single and snipped feels “it’s a flex” when it comes to being on the dating scene. Aside from being a talking point and a sign of emotional maturity, crucially it “finalises that aspect of ‘maybe he’ll change his mind’. which I have experienced in relationships in the past. I’ve been very clear I don’t want children previously, but nobody fully believes that when you tell them. They might put it to one side and say ‘let’s think about that later’.” Ray also has no regrets. Dr Nick Demediuk has performed more than 50,000 vasectomies in his career. The name of his clinic in Australia says it all: Dr Snip. His perspective over 34 years of performing a life-changing operation is thus pretty unique and his recommendation is unequivocal: “It’s the simplest and easiest form of permanent contraception that responsible men can use to contribute to their relationships and the planet.” For him, one of the key reasons behind the growth in younger men taking up vasectomies has been “issues related to climate change”, with a significant subgroup of “hard-line vegans”. There’s not enough resources for people alive on earth today – it feels almost a bit selfish for us to contribute to that scenario Nat and Charlie* This chimes with Nat and Charlie*, a male/female couple who moved from a big city to the English countryside this year, in part motivated by a desire to give their beloved trio of cats more space. Having been on the fringes of eco-activism since university, their decision – raised initially by Nat and enthusiastically supported by Charlie – to have the procedure when Nat was 29 was very much informed by the climate emergency. “We both feel like we’re loving people and capable of lots of love,” says Charlie “but we both felt inside of ourselves that we never wanted to have children, especially in the world as it is today.” Citing the extreme weather events all over Europe this summer as just one example, they fundamentally worry about the world being safe enough to bring kids into, as well as the feeling that “there are not enough resources for people alive on earth today – it feels almost a bit selfish for us to contribute to that scenario.” They stop short of endorsing the emerging philosophy of anti-natalism, a controversial belief first advanced by South African philosopher David Benatar that sees all human reproduction as immoral, in part due to the climate emergency but also because life is inevitably tinged with suffering and pain. But, in choosing not to have children out of concern for the environment, they find themselves at one end of an extreme and widening political spectrum. The same week I speak to them, Hungary’s leader Viktor Orban was holding the fourth of his biannual Demographic Summits, which – with Italy’s leader Georgia Meloni, religious leaders and right-wing thinkers in tow – aimed to solve what’s seen as a crisis in underpopulation in Europe. Encouraging more babies via defence of traditional family values feels a world away from the outlooks of Nat, Charlie and the many others taking up the vasectomy as a way of definitely not having kids on principle. As if we didn’t have enough 50-50 splits in society today, an increasing number of people believe we need fewer children while an equal number believe we need more. Britain in 2023 therefore seems conflicted between two worlds – the privatised freedom of America where a young, non-parent like Brian Turner is waved through (“I talked to my GP and she said, ‘All good’ and referred me straight away”) and a more prohibitive or simply untrusting mindset that looks at a young man and says, “Hmm, go away and think about it a while.” Perhaps if we want young men in society to play a more positive, active role, maybe they need to be trusted with their own bodily autonomy first? *Names have been changed Read More No music, no ball games, no fun: society is wiping out play ‘I was really struggling to get it up’: Why younger men are turning to Viagra I couldn’t climax, so I let ‘big testosterone’ take me for a ride Woman prepares hamper basket as her husband’s vasectomy gift Why taking a mental health day could be bad… for your mental health What the world’s happiest children tell us about where Britain is going wrong

Just why is it that we never see the French first lady, Brigitte Macron, commit a fashion faux pas? How is it that this 70-year-old grandmother can, for example, pull off black leather trousers, really quite short dresses, or a swimming costume for a cover shoot? With the King and Queen’s state visit in France this week providing yet another welcome opportunity for scrutiny of Madame Macron’s impeccable wardrobe, she always seems to exemplify faultless French chic. In fact, we’re calling it – with those impossibly toned, glossy bronzed legs, the power blow-dries and endless outfit wins, she’s starting to seem like “Brigitte Barbie TM”. In a good way. The explanation to the questions above can be found within the Mme Macron Venn diagram of style. The French first lady has at her disposal a long list of extremely cool and effortlessly elegant French style icons from which to borrow all manner of trademark looks and ripped-up rulebooks (French women adore a broken fashion rule). This Venn diagram features some of the heroines of French-girl style, from film stars Brigitte Bardot and Catherine Deneuve to rock-chic fashion editor Carine Roitfeld, to the most iconic French fashion plate of all, Coco Chanel, with Brigitte Macron standing in the middle of it all, assimilating all of their signatures and making them her own. Sensuality, age defiance, and lots and lots of leg are at the core of it. Who would have thought that you could say that about a first-lady Barbie? So what exactly are the components of the ultimate Venn diagram of Brigitte chic? 1. Carine Roitfeld Bare-legged, kohled eyes, teak-tanned – the superficial similarities between “Brigitte Barbie “and the former French Vogue editor-in-chief, Carine Roitfeld, are plain to see. (Note: that pulling off this formula requires innate French insouciance and je ne sais quoi in order to avoid looking like a superannuated Towie star, as we Brits inevitably would be given the same treatment.) Of course, it wouldn’t do for Mme Macron – at least in her public-facing guise – to go the full rock’n’roll Roitfeld, all femme fatale black leather pencil skirts, lace tights and dresses slashed to the thigh. But Roitfeld’s influence is still clear to see: just a year younger than Brigitte Macron if the ex-Vogue editor says it’s fine for grandmothers – as they both are – to wear towering heels with (some way) above-the-knee skirts, douse themselves in bronzer, and scaffold their eyelashes with whacking great shelves of black mascara, who are we to argue? 2. Brigitte Bardot Most wouldn’t even dare to take inspiration from the blonde bombshell that was Bardot – who are we, after all, to think there could be any physical connection? But, as we are so often told, French women are made of different stuff (not to mention, calorie-negative croissants). They are just naturally confident in their God-given sex appeal – while we wear pants, they wear lingerie, while we wear PJs, they wear negligees. None more so, it seems, than Brigitte Macron, the glamazon of first ladies – the woman who arranged to be photographed in a blue floral halterneck swimsuit on a Biarritz beach for Paris Match ahead of her husband’s 2016 presidential campaign. Smooth, tanned legs, beachy, undone hair, and the victorious smile of a woman who’s bagged a handsome younger husband, there was a clear resemblance of a confident, carefree “Bardot does Cannes” – the original sex bomb; the epitome of feminine sexuality. This is surely Mme Macron’s unspoken cause, to remind women that they too can be sexy whatever their age. 3. Catherine Deneuve Did any woman in French history have a better blonde blowout than the iconic French film star Catherine Deneuve? If glamour, polish and sex appeal are your watchwords (as they evidently are with Brigitte Macron), why wouldn’t you take a leaf out of Deneuve’s playbook and infuse your hair with buttery blondeness, volume and lift? Of course, expensive, high-maintenance hair is a terribly middle-aged French woman pursuit, because they all know that, as ably demonstrated by Mme Deneuve, big blonde hair is a fast track to voluptuousness when the body is perhaps less inclined (the Macrons, by the way, are understood to spend €62,000 a year on hair and make-up, as revealed in 2018 by the French Court of Audit). What’s more, a golden crown of bouffy hair creates a perfect frame for wearing more make-up than is strictly necessary. But the Deneuve reference is not just concerned with big hair – or, indeed, their shared love of late Parisian designer Yves Saint Laurent (which the French first lady wore to welcome the king and queen on their state visit, and which Deneuve commissioned for her first meeting with the late Queen Elizabeth II – and which always, always lends an elegant, sophisticated simplicity). It’s about an attitude, one that is cool, sexy and a little edgy, with so much going on beneath the surface. It’s all tres, tres French. 4. Françoise Hardy As any fashion historian will tell you, the French chanteuse Françoise Hardy set the benchmark for wearing leather with effortless chic. In fact, she famously “double leathered” with a black leather biker jacket and black leather trousers while sitting on the back of a motorbike, her luxuriant, fringed hair unfettered by any unsexy safety equipment. Brigitte Macron might not be able to do the motorbike, but she can – and regularly does – do the skinny leather pants. Worn black like Hardy, with yet more of Mme Macron’s beloved sky-high heels, the French first lady ably demonstrates what Theresa May was just never going to grasp – that succeeding with leather, is all about sex. You don’t achieve sex appeal by wearing leather, but rather, you pull off leather when you have an innate ability to deploy some sensuality. Sometimes you just have to leave it to the French. 5. Coco Chanel There surely isn’t a French woman of any standing whose fashion sense isn’t informed by Coco Chanel. And of course, Brigitte Macron would not be doing her job as ambassador-in-chief of French fashion if she were not seen to be wearing plenty of Chanel. But that’s not really the point here. It’s not just about being able to have an ample, Chanel-labelled armoury of classic design, good taste and French chic – as displayed this week when Queen Camilla and the French first lady visited Chanel, Brigitte Macron wearing a red boucle long line jacket from the fashion house (think, as ever, a strong shoulder, a nipped waist and flattering tailoring). Non, it’s about “liberté”. Chanel’s fashion philosophy was about freedom of movement and independence so when Brigitte Macron teams a blazer with jeans (admittedly unlikely on this state visit but clearly in evidence on many a walkabout), you know who paved the way for that. Chanel style is also about ensuring that you are the statement as opposed to your outfit. With Brigitte Macron’s style signature being legs, lashes and a distinct lack of apology for not dressing her age, Coco would surely be proud. Read More Queen Camilla enjoys game of ping pong with Brigitte Macron In Pictures: King delivers historic address to French senate King Charles and Queen Camilla greeted by Emmanuel Macron and his wife in Paris Queen Camilla enjoys game of ping pong with Brigitte Macron King Charles to address French senate in historic first King Charles and Queen Camilla greeted by Emmanuel Macron and his wife in Paris

Sometimes the best thing to do when the present feels unpleasant is to look back, or look ahead.

Rhythm games often fill me with dread. Staying on beat in even casual situations proves difficult, so adding in some