A fortnight into COVID-19 induced quarantine and my hair has already attained plateau unruly. At this rate, if I also let my facial hair grow unhindered, when full liberty is gained from my residential cell I’ll look like the guy who got fogged in the Friends episode ‘The One With The Yeti’!

Acquiring the maternal hair growth gene, when my follicles are left to their own devices their preferred direction of sojourn is towards the clouds; where ironically some opine my head is most of time!

This fighting of gravity resulting in me being incapable of attaining the long flowing lock style of coiffure. Consequently, when this twelve week isolation is over I’ll probably be three inches taller, mirroring a look no too dissimilar to a furry faced Marge Simpson.

My mum’s bouffant also has a penchant for growing skywards, as opposed to letting gravity take its course. With it’s course strands and grey chromaticity, my sister Helen likens maters locks to the wire wool utilised to clean oven racks. I can categorically state, though, she’s never used her bonce to spruce up the cookers aesthetics….. The surety manifesting from the fact it’s me who cleans the bloody thing!


Apart from childhood, where I’d sported a collar length man coif adorned by the likes of The Monkees lead singer Davy Jones, the only time I can recall donning hair of collar length was courtesy of a 1980’s mullet.

Although fashionable at the time, history hasn’t been kind to that particular hairstyle. Most debates on the subject mullets often starting from a baseline of derision; most opining it a tonsorial blip on the mens fashion landscape. The style’s memory tainted further by the fact bearers oft accompanied their long fringe and collar length design by adorning a moustache. An act of which I’m guilty as charged.

To clarify, I’m not complaining about the hair coarseness of which I was allotted in life’s genetic lottery. I’m more than happy I’ve maintained my hair into my 50’s, along with the strands making up it’s overall synergy bearing little grey.

My late dad was bald in his 40’s. My younger brother Ian, who clearly acquired the old man’s gene baring indifference at retaining hair follicles, was bald in his 30’s. Not that he’s overly bothered. Nor should he be!

After all, our kid was blessed with dad’s pragmatism, calm and level headed outlook on life; to my mind, an utterly tremendous bequeathal. His elder brother, also blessed with important genetic legacies, receiving the significantly more erratic behavioural DNA of our mother.

Don’t get me wrong, Mrs Strachan senior is a wonderfully funny, loving, caring lady. That being said, the fact we both bear the same unpredictable behavioural traits means this twelve week quarantine will be a significant test of both our patiences.

Without a doubt, there’ll be plenty of laughs, banter and windups. However, I also foresee times when there’s a requirement to look back through the advocacies of my recently completed Victor Meldrew Anger Management course. Along with occasions when the old lady bears her claws in response to a mischievous windup from her eldest offspring.

Parents, eh!!…… Can’t live with them; can’t live without them!!

Stay safe troops!…… Now go wash your hands!