If anyone is entitled to tall poppy syndrome it's Ms Delevingne, no not the puckish Cara but her ethereal sister Poppy.
Currently London's reigning It Blonde, she can go from glacial to pretty, sophisticated to playful, wanton to innocent, in a swish of snowy mane.
Some are born blonde, some achieve it through artifice but The Blonde remains one of our most beguiling archetypes.
Painters have clothed her in oils, poets have wreathed her in words and Raymond Chandler didn't want anyone other than her to walk into a smoky bar trailing trouble not far behind.
Like most northern Europeans I was blonde up until the age of three, one day I may just go back.