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...