The Bald Truth

I've always had a good head of hair. In my late teens my golden mane, shimmering in the constant sunshine of the summer of '76 thanks to a regular dousing with Timotei shampoo, sashayed its way down my back to well below my shoulder blades.

Although I've since adopted a shorter and more employment-friendly cut I've always assumed that I'd keep my lush bonce-carpet well into my dotage like my father did in his. By his late seventies my dad had lost a little off the forehead but the rest was thick, silver and distinguished, like that of an American soap-opera patriarch. I was looking forward to a similar image as I approached the same age, which is still over twenty years away.

Yesterday, following a quick trim at my usual hairdressing establishment, Fabian was waving a mirror around to show me the fabulous scissor work he'd undertaken at the back of my head when I noticed a gleam of pink. I asked him to do it again. It was true! The hair at my crown has thinned so much that I could see scalp through it. I was already aware that more and more of my forehead and temples have become visible over the last couple of years but I wasn't expecting this.

To add insult to injury Fabian insisted on trimming my ear, nose and eyebrow hairs as well, all of which are growing into luxuriant grey tresses at a speed to match the deforestation up top.

So, it looks as though I'm soon to be faced with the eternal dilemma of the prematurely glabrous - do I go for a rug, a transplant, a Ralph Coates comb-over or a buzz-cut?

I'll keep you informed...

All the best,
oldblodger