“He looks really scruffy!”
A forthright opinion emanating from an elderly lady’s mouth as I walked past her and (I assume) her husband while strolling towards the Batley Mills retail outlet entrance.
With other shoppers in the immediate vicinity, I am unsure if this barb was directed at me. And even if it was, as it evoked memories of my late mother’s occasional caustic observations, I smiled at the accusation. If it was me, though, I was intrigued to know which aesthetic flaw led to the verbal jab.
Was it my Sunday morning bed hair? An unkempt beard? The jogging bottoms covered in Zella the German Shepherd’s long hair? Or, indeed, all three? Walking towards the automatic doors, I ruled out my smart Superdry coat and new Adidas trainers as potential catalysts to comments about my flawed sartorial elegance.
When the doors didn’t open first time upon reaching them, I briefly wondered if the entrance mechanism had decided to deny me access due to lax grooming. I worried unnecessarily, though, as they parted when standing nearer the sensor.
Once inside the main entrance, heading towards the furniture section, I self-consciously attempted to smarten my hair when passing a mirror. This barnet groom included flattening a cluster of erect strands on my ever-balding crown; along with a speedy combover adjustment. Bald bits remained but, like dinosaurs and Phillip Schofield’s TV career, capacity to fully cover my scalp is a thing of the past.
Upon completing this task as well I could without a comb, I looked around for the old lady who (may have) labelled me scruffy. Hoping I could catch her gaze, and (who knows) even receive a hearty thumbs up for my on the hoof grooming efforts.
Her and her companion, though, were some distance away, looking at products for the elderly, such as doyleys, knitted toilet roll holders, and rotating toupees.
Note to self – Remember where the toupee section is for the not-too-distant future.
Would I wear a toupee when the remaining follicles bid my scalp a fond farewell??… Only for comedic value. I reckon you could have some fun walking around town in the shittest wig made for man.
Rubbish wigs always cause mirth/ridicule/bewilderment (delete where applicable). If you’re sat in a bar and a bald fella walks in nobody bats an eyelid. However, if that chap walked in wearing a dodgy toupee you’d nudge the person next to you and proffer “Bloody hell, have you seen the syrup on that!”
To make my comedy wig even more obvious, I’ve concluded it’d be fun to have a piece of elastic fitted to fit under my chin. And adorn a sandwich board bearing the confession ‘I’m as bald as a coot without a toupee’.
Not that it is likely to find a coot donning the controversial scalp covering. Even if that Rallidae, emotionally triggered by constantly hearing the adage ‘As bald as a coot’, wanted a wig I’d suspect finding one to fit would be problematic. I certainly did not see a coot headwear department when strolling Batley Mills floors last Sunday.
I guess I’ve been lucky to hold on to most of my hair follicles as I enter my sixth decade on this dysfunctional planet. My brother Ian was bald at the age of thirty, and my 33 year old son Jonny has recently chosen to cut his loses, shaving his head when hair follicles started bidding his bonce adieu.
When I comes to hair sustainability, I appear to have inherited the genes of males on my mum’s side of the family.
Men like great uncle George whose thick wavy hair was so resilient he could use it to scour clean his wife’s large stew pot. After the occasion he got it stuck mid-clean, though, he was reticent to attempt it further.
Anyhow, I’ll never find out if that old woman was referring to me when positing “He looks really scruffy!” However, there may be a clue after she felt moved to spray me with aftershave samples when later passing her in the perfumery.
Loved it