SO, this going bald malarkey - can I be candid with you? - it’s a proper pain in the ass.
I like a good rug. I like a bad rug too. I like my human heads like I like a women’s armpits - with a goodly amount of fuzz.
Here’s what I don’t like: my forehead. I don’t know who’s in charge up there but they seem to think subjecting an unsuspecting hairline to sustained attack is reasonable neighbourly behaviour. My forehead has annexed both temples and is now brazenly massing troops for an assault on the crown. It’s basically Germany 1939 all over again, only on my noggin. My forehead wants to make an empire of my bonce, and I don’t have the Battle Of Britain lads to help mount a defence.
Pardon? Melodramatic? Over indulgent? Moi?
You mean you don’t think it normal to stand in front of a mirror pep-talking your follicles? To demand, oi, stop making like France 1940 and stand up for yourselves, you spineless little twerps? That’s slightly eccentric, you say?
Well, perhaps. But I was reassured this week to find I’m not the only bloke to worry about hair loss. Apparently two-thirds of chaps will, at some point, brush their hair and think, crikey, if things don’t slow down up there, I’m going to end up looking like something Ronnie O’Sullivan wants to knock into the top pocket. Analysts said one way to stop such stress was by actually, you know, just going bald.
My brother has no such concerns.
He had cancer when he was my age. He spent six months having chemo and lost every hair on his head. Then, when he was clear, every single one grew back.
I’ll be honest, I’m jealous. I mean, I’m not trying to say male pattern balding is worse than a potentially terminal illness but at least he never has to worry about a strong gust of wind, right?
And obviously I understand there are far worse things – starvation, torture, Radio One – than my old mop treating itself to an early finish but that still doesn’t make things okay when you get down to the heart of this dilemma. Which is basically, Jesus, just what sort of barnet can you pull off when your widow’s peak becomes a widow’s trough, anyway?
I don’t want a skinhead (yet) because I don’t have the stubble but I’m not down with being nicknamed Bobby Charlton either.
So what to do? A sideswipe to make this receder look like an over-enthusiastic parting? A mohawk to make the fluff on top work for its money while it’s still around? Neither seem quite credible.
And she - whose advice I seek most - has long since stopped caring. God, she says, I wish it would just all fall out, already. I’m starting to feel the same. This stress of losing my hair is making my hair fall out.