The death knell tolls, then, for dandruff, that little icon of our humanity resting gently on your left shoulder. Scientists have untangled the skeins of its DNA and will doubtless snuff out the ’druff long before it begins to create squamousness of the scalp; ending a quest for a cure begun when Pliny the Elder recommended garlic. Everyone’s parting will be free from flakes. Jackets will betray no embarrassing snowiness. Good news all round.

And yet, is it? Scientific advances are to be lauded, but someone must praise imperfection, too. Frailty, thy name is not just woman, but all humanity, and it would be hubristic to forget that we are all fallible. As science makes giant strides, we are in danger of convincing ourselves that we are superheroes. Xenotransplantation may soon allow us to grow new organs to replace sick ones. Our wrinkles are smoothed with Botox. And on our scalps, conditions have improved immeasurably. First, we nixed the lice that had the Elizabethans shaving their heads for so long, and dye means that we need not tolerate greys. In the triumph of progress over ailing and ageing, is it too much to ask that dandruff be retained? It is a tiny reminder that, though we may feel as if we are hurtling towards immortality, we are yet vulnerable.

Can’t dandruff, whose origins are as obscure as its etymology, even be endearing? The shoulder pads of a Chanel power suit are less frightening when they have to be dusted off now and then. Flakes in a hunky chap’s hairline make him flawed and appealing rather than heroic and remote. Our hair is human, our dandruff divine.