The wind is darned gusty this morning; this inclement weather so blustery that during my short walk from apartment building door to the car a gust seized my cap and hairpiece. The pair last seen hurtling over the horizon in a north easterly direction towards Castleford… An episode made even stranger by the fact I wasn’t even wearing a cap or hairpiece.
As it stands yours truly has been blessed that, despite being a decade or so into middle-age, my hair has not yet thinned to a stage where I am required to wear a wig… Not that I would don a syrup even if my follicles had diminished to the extent it was required… A plot line which, to my mind, would make me look infinitely worse than growing bald gracefully.
I’d venture no one would bat an eyelid if chatting with mates in a pub whilst a bald fella walked past. An indifference which wouldn’t be afforded to anyone (male wise anyhow) making the same entrance donning a dodgy hair piece.
As my dad and brother were both bald by the age of 40, all I can guess is that I’ve inherited this hair follicle longevity from my mum’s side of the family. Sure it is thinning on top, however, the presence of enough mane has proved a boon when fighting the ageing process. This good fortune extending to GJ Strachan bearing little visible grey hair at this juncture.
Sure gusts like this morning’s prove problematic for disrupting my forensically sited combover. However, as the strands are fairly short, the scene doesn’t play out with the similar questionable aesthetics which haunted former Manchester United & England footballer Bobby Charlton on blustery days.
It has to be said, though, hair loss is no joke. Men worldwide spend millions attempting to remedy what they deem as the cosmetic stigma of follicle flight.
Would I indulge in such vanity when the inevitable comes to me and I’m a bald as a coot?… Nah, probably not!… If I did, I’d go down the hair replacement procedure route… Definitely not a wander down toupee avenue.
How long will it be before I follow my brother Ian in employing a weekly shave regime, involving the clippering remnants of his fully receded hairline?… I don’t know, but I do know this week there’s a good 3 for 2 yoghurt offer at Asda.
As I write, I’m sitting in my partner Sarah’s living room with her enchanting dog Zella. With the Ossett lass working an overnight shift, I’ve offered to sit, walk and feed the long haired German Shepherd… This task a pleasure not a chore, I hasten to add.
Zells has just been into the back garden. The gusts blowing her brown, fawn and grey pelt upwards, a scene bringing to mind gravity defying sights of schooldays science lessons when touching a Van de Graaff generator.
Well, I am assuming the delightful dog’s hair is standing on end due to the prevailing heavy winds outside, and she’s not been messing around with a Van de Graaff generator… I best keep an eye on her as Sarah specifically told me not to let her beloved pet play with anything which generates electrostatic!
Incidentally, if you’re in Castleford and you see my cap and hairpiece can I have them back please… Oh, I forgot, I made that bit up!… Strike that thought!
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