There comes a time where a man must face facts. My hair has been thinning for a good few years now but nobody could really tell thanks to me being quite tall (unless I’d fallen over or something like that). I think it’s something I have in common with my grandfather. He was 6′ 6″ but bald as a coot by the age of 25.
Don’t get me wrong, it doesn’t bother me in the slightest. If it did I could buy a wig or a toupée1, get a weave or a comb over, fiddle my insurance for some Demoxinil or take up a religion that mandates the covering of the head.
Yesterday I decided that my hair was looking too straggly and as I’d all but run out of product I’d pay a visit to the barbers to make a date with the clippers before I got to Japan and chance my arm there. 30 minutes later after some clipper action, a cut-throat razor shave (including the back of my neck), a shampoo, rinse and a peppermint scalp massage I left feeling quite tingly and – with the wind blowing through the stubble – quite cold.
1 That reminds me of a joke:
Q. Why did the wig run out of the shop?
A. Because it didn’t want to pay!