It’s not the hair which worries me. It’s rather beautiful in a way - a candy floss creation of sweeping whirls and razor edges, re-created every day. It must take hours. It’s not the complexion either - that brilliant tangerine so loud it makes you want to reach for a pair of shades. No - I can cope with all that. And I’m not worried by the cupid’s bow mouth, or that curiously phallic thing he does with a pointed finger.