Paul Nicholas perms, sweaty polo necks, the wardrobe of a nun and the face of a Smurf. The SHB team confess to yet more style sins.
Sali Hughes, Co-founder

Yes that is a mullet, thank you for noticing. I?d like to claim it was born from indifference, a youthful insouciance and lack of appreciation for the art of hair and makeup, but I?d be lying. It was as calculated as a serial killer?s road trip, only with more dire consequences. I had seen Cardiff hairstylists The Brothers Constantinou on telly. They were winners of multiple British hairdresser of The Year awards and, as a terrific beauty snob even at 11 years old, I couldn?t wait to grow out my Rick Parfitt from Quo perm and save enough pocket money to visit their salon a few miles from my home. ?I want this?, I said with no uncertainty, as I shoved under the stylist?s nose a Boots No17 advert I?d torn from Just Seventeen especially. The redheaded model wore a messy bob, casually layered and root lifted to all hell. I?d taken care of my frosty highlights with an 80p sachet of copper Shaders & Toners, I now just needed to replicate the artfully uneven cut. ?Fine?, she said, popping it swiftly down on the melamine top, spilling my Maxpax hot chocolate, barely glancing in its direction. You know when you order dinner and there?s something about the waiter?s general demeanour that tells you you?re definitely not getting what you?ve asked for" Reader, the feeling was strong. And never again shall I ignore it, becau...