From what I can tell, as I watch my few remaining follicles wither and die, male pattern baldness is a phenomenon almost entirely without merit. First you have hair that bounces and swishes like a young Leonardo DiCaprio riding a stallion along the surf, and then it goes away and suddenly you’ve got a thumb for a head.

But I am intrinsically optimistic by nature, so I can console myself with the fact that, once I am fully consumed by baldness, at least I won’t have to talk to any more hairdressers. Talking to hairdressers is truly awful. It’s a nightmare struggle of meaningless, fragile, base-level chitchat that both participants enter into reluctantly because it’s the only thing stopping them from silently contemplating the finite nature of existence. The energy I expend trying to think up nothingy subjects to discuss with hairdressers would frighten you. I could have single-handedly solved climate change by now if I didn’t have to invent nice ways to ask strangers what they think about working on Saturdays.

And, ultimately, this proves that I am young at heart. YouGov has just published a study showing that millennials also hate talking to hairdressers. And taxi drivers. And bar staff. And checkout assistants. And tradespeople who visit their homes. And colleagues they don’t know very well. And pretty much anyone whom they have been on a bus with. In fact, the reluctance of those aged 18 to 34 to talk to anyone has been identified as a “key trend”. It’s the defining trait of an entire generation, up there with over-reacting to Giles Coren articles and writing the word “Yaaass” on the internet a lot.

It tails off, obviously. Once people get older, their desire for small talk begins to escalate wildly. According to the survey, 80% of subjects over the age of 55 actually want to talk to their hairdressers, compared with the 56% of millennials who would prefer to sacrifice their heads to a whirling, spluttering automated scissor machine than enter into a meaningful interaction with another human. Of course, this might be because older people are naturally chattier by nature. But the other explanation is that they didn’t grow up enjoying the wonderland that is automation.

In the old days, whenever anyone wanted a pizza, they would have to lift up a heavy telephone receiver and verbally instruct a stranger what they wanted to eat down a crackly line that in no way guaranteed accuracy. If they wanted to book a taxi, they would have to order a person to come to their house, like some sort of aristocratic ninny. If they wanted to buy condoms, they had to show the condoms to an adult who worked in a shop and watch in dismay as they reacted with a complex dance of suspicion and revulsion before finally asking for payment. That last one, especially, was terrible. It was so excruciating that Madness wrote a song about it. I understand all too well, because I’ve had to show condoms to checkout assistants before. That face you’re pulling now as you glance up at my byline picture and realise that it’s capable of sexual activity? I know that face well. It is the only face I saw during my adolescence.

But now? Kids these days don’t know they’re born. Self-service checkout machines have revolutionised the condom-purchasing process. Walk up to a robot, beep boop beep, and the condoms are yours. Nobody feels awkward. Nobody burns up with shame. Madness wouldn’t have a career had these machines been around in the 80s, but aside from that the system is amazing. And this isn’t limited to contraception, either. Ready meals for one. Huge bars of chocolate. Copious quantities of daytime alcohol. You can now buy all of these without fearing judgment from another human being. If that isn’t progress, I don’t know what is.

And if you think this is great, just wait until driverless cars kick in. Imagine: entire journeys where you don’t have to interact with taxi drivers. Journeys where the response to a query as innocent as “Have you been busy today?” doesn’t slowly transmogrify into a long rant about how great Nigel Farage is. Journeys where you don’t have to noncommittally murmur at bigoted monologues out of politeness. Journeys where nobody tells you that they Googled you on their way to your house and they don’t really like any of your articles.

Why I hate small talk | Tim Lott Read more

How is any of this not preferable to the current hellscape of human interaction? I mean, sure, eventually we’ll all just spend our days drifting from screen to screen, punching commands into automated sub-menus in total isolation until we die of loneliness. But surely that’s better than having to talk to hairdressers about your holiday, right?

In fact, the more I think about it, the more I’m convinced that I’m not just going bald. No, my hair has sacrificed itself to save me from any more awkward conversations with people. This isn’t a sign of weak genetics. It’s an evolution. Where I lead, others will follow. Mark my words, the hot trend for millennials in 2018 will be having thumbs for heads. I’m certain of it.