One of the greatest things a man can hear is
“I don’t want to worry you, but your hair is really thin…”
I never used to get this level of abuse from normal hairdressing people, but since Carole took over cutting my hair some years ago this – along with her frequent need to shave a bare patch on my chest so that the hair grows back really itchy – has become the norm.
But today she upped it a level. Bringing an element of doom and gloom to the proceedings that she has never felt the need to include before.
“I don’t want a bald man…” she said, before launching into what could – to the uninformed – look like a sales pitch for the miracles of hair-loss prevention shampoos. Or witchcraft in a bottle.
She then, as exhibit A, introduced my father’s hair into the equation, claiming that he was not losing his hair. I then had to basically destroy any fond memories Carole may have of dad’s luxurious locks by explaining that he was, in fact, balding but that he compensated for that by just having a lot more of the hair that remained. He didn’t have a comb-over or anything like that. He just favoured a longer haired approach to the top of his head which gave the illusion of a full head of hair. That, combined with his beard, worked to create the image of a man firmly attached to his follicles.
I, on the other hand, choose to cut my hair short. This is mainly due to the fact that it’s a thousand times easier than dealing with anything else. It is also, or was also, substantially cheaper to have it cut in that way that anything arty-farty, because it requires no more thought or effort than popping on a blade guard and buzzing across it.
However, the flip side of my hair is that if somewhere were to take a picture – particularly one in a dim room with the flash on – my head can, if the lighting is right, essentially look like a peach. There is more flesh showing through the hair than is desirable.
I might have to become one of those people who wears a hat.