Musing on baldness
Baldness: what does it mean for the modern man? Emasculation?

Or emancipation? At least you don't have to worry about how you look. Because you look crap anyway.

No one hopes to become bald. Shaved heads are popular nowadays, but it does depend on the shape of your head. Large foreheads and extended backs of heads just look ridiculous. Short and squat ones don't look much better either. They make you look as if you have just had a lobotomy.

Rare is the person who actually looks better bald. Yul Brynner from the Magnificent Seven, perhaps. But that's about it. Maybe if my head was a better shape I might not be so concerned. Maybe I would be pleased if I did. I wouldn't have the fuss about getting my hair "just so". I could throw away the gel, put my metal comb out for recycling. Yeah, and banish dignity and self-respect to the outer reaches of happiness.

People judge you by how you look. Magazines and newspapers are obsessed with celebrities and their looks. If you are a nonentity and, worse still, have no looks, then society doesn't really rate you. Promotions will go to the hairy-heads, the hairier-than-thou. Prospective partners will look straight through you. Although, they may permit themselves a giggle.

Your mum looks at your thinning hair in disappointment. How could that cute little boy become... this? You now look like an accountant. And that is not a good look.

No one says: "great personality, such flair, but oh... they would be so much more special if they were bald!"

Even God finds it difficult to love a baldie. Throughout the Bible, there are numerous claims that God will make Israel's enemies sterile, confused, feeble and, in each case, bald as well! Most people could cope with sterility, confusion and enfeeblement. But baldness? That is a step too far.

And here is my point. Baldness is open game for humour. Everyone finds it funny and feels that it is perfectly reasonable to make fun of those with thinning hair. So how can a bald person feel self-respect?

Baldness is the thing that men fear the most. Even ill-health and a partner's infidelity pale in comparison. You become something else. A baldie. A slaphead. Bald as a coot. Bald as an egg. Bald as a billiard ball. Thin on top. Receding. Domehead. Chrome-dome. Monk. Wrinkle-bonce. Nonce-bonce. Scalphead. Happyslappyhead. Happycrappyslappyhead. Slaphappycrappyslaphead. Need I say more?

Part 5 follows...

Getting better?
I pushed the door, but nothing happened. I pressed the buzzer again. "Re-grow International," intoned a crackly, and now impatient, voice. "I couldn't get in. It's me again. I've got an appointment now," I said unnecessarily. "Well, push the bloody door then".

I ran at the door, shoulder first. The door opened with ease, but my momentum propelled me along the short corridor until I was nose to nose with the receptionist. She was less crackly with me this time. More frightened.

"Sorry", I said. "I've got an appointment."

A door behind me opened. "Heyyyy! I'm Stu. Let's sort your head out!" bellowed a voice that was less West Coast, more West Bromwich. I could hardly contain my disappointment.

Stu was a small blob of a man. But his most distinctive feature was the creation on his head. It was a quiff to end all quiffs. It had been heavily gelled, yet it had a surreal floatiness about it.

"Come in, come in. Great to see you, mate!" enthused Stu. "Sit down and let me take away your worries!"

I sat meekly in the huge leather chair. It was so large that I sank deep, deep within its folds.

"We have a range of solutions for you! We will carry out a survey of your head and, in particular, your follics," shouted Stu with gusto.

Follics? This is worrying, he doesn't even know the right word. But Stu's Brummie patter was relentless. I needn't worry about my follics. At all. Not a bit.

Frankly, I wasn't concerned. It was my follicles that worried me. I hate having to take advice from idiots.

He got up from his desk and circled behind my seat. He laid his hands on either side my head. "Yes, I thought so," he said. "What is it?" I asked. "You're definitely going bald." It was at this stage that I was concerned how much this expert advice was going to cost.

He returned to his desk. "Don't worry, though. We have a range of solutions to help you.

"Have you ever heard of Minoxidil? It's wicked." If I hadn't been so desperate, I would have left then. I morosely twitched my head left and right.

"Well, you rub it into the affected areas twoice a day, and..." he explained.

"Twoice?" I echoed.

"Yes, twoice. After a few months, your hair will start growing back!"

"Really?" I croaked.

"Yes! The lotion clears out the follics and gets the hair growing again!" enthused Stu.

"But what about these really bald parts?" I ran my fingers through what was left of my hair.

"Don't worry! Do anything but worry! If the lotion option doesn't suit you, we can weave some of your older hair to cover the bald patches. All you do is unplug your old hair from your sink and bring it in. We then create a thatch that attaches to your existing hair and covers the problem. You can even go swimming! Everything is going to be alroight!"

"Alroight?"

"Yes, alroight. Just fill in this form and off we go!"

I sat, stunned. On the one hand, I was apparently being given a guarantee that my hair would grow back. Yet, on the other, I was being told that if that didn't work there was an alternative. So, what is the guarantee? Also, what the hell was that on his head?

"So, Stu. Tell me, is there anyone who works here who has had any of these treatments?" I mumbled.

"Well, yes! Now this might surprise you, but I have a weave!" Stu announced proudly.

"Really?" I said feebly.

Well, actually there was no guarantee, but what was I going to do? Walk away and put up with it? Hardly. "So, I just fill in this form?"

"Yes, that's all there is to it. Oh, and your £1,000 deposit for six months' treatment."

Part 4 follows...

Getting worse
I made my way to the metro station. I ran down the steps to the platform, two a time. A train was waiting. As I approached, the doors began to close. I was too late. Just before the train pulled out, the last thing I saw was a man looking through the window at me, grinning. A man with lots of hair. Grinning. At me.

At this time of the day, the work rush-hour trains arrive in quick succession. I clambered aboard the next one and stood near the door, holding a ceiling rail for support. I looked around the carriage.

Facing me was a man with closely cropped hair and sideburns, a beard but no moustache. He looked like he was wearing straps to keep his hair on. It was the irony of it, really. All that hair and no clue what to do with it.

Further down the carriage was a man with long, lank, greasy hair. His face was screwed up in nervous tension as if he disapproved of everyone around him, felt their contempt. He was so uptight, as if he was clasping a peanut between his buttocks. Or was I projecting how I felt on to him?

I got off the train at the next stop and walked the rest of my journey to work. By the time I reached the building, I was desperate for the toilet and made a close-legged shuffle past the reception desk towards the heavy doors opposite.

I drilled the metal urinal with a laser-like, thundering arc of wee. Clouds of steam engulfed me. I crossed over to the sinks. The powerful overhead lights burned down onto the top of my head. I looked at my reflection. A giant egg, balanced on shoulders. I looked worse than this morning. Still, at least I had my lunchtime appointment to buoy me up.

The morning passed quickly enough. I was a bit edgy with anyone who seemed to be looking at my receding hair, rather than at me. But no major problems.

At one o'clock, I grabbed my jacket from the back of the chair and jogged out of the office. I headed back to the metro station. Luckily, a train was just arriving. I jumped on board and realised I was standing opposite "peanut-buttocks" from earlier.

Inwardly, I screamed. At least, I hope it was inwardly. As the noise began to subside in my head, the train pulled in to my station. Another brisk jog up stairs, through the ticket barrier and 50 metres along the street brought me to my destination. My salvation. At least... I hoped so.

I pressed the buzzer outside the door. "Re-grow International," intoned a crackly voice. I looked over my shoulder to see whether anyone was watching me. "It's me. Um. I've got an appointment now," I whispered into the entryphone. "Come in," the voice crackled back. Oh, well, "to baldly go...," I thought.

Part 3 follows...