I remember when I was a young lad, I used to make fun at my Dads hair loss. It felt like everyone made fun of bald people back then. No, not bold people, bald people. You know. Those fellas with the sunroof on top. Those follicaly challenged folk.
Back then, having a fully shaved meant you were a bit of a thug. That was the association with it. Many a Grandma crossed the road when approached by a youth with a shaved head. Maybe that’s why for years men would cling onto that nasty bit of hair around the side and to the back. As that centre parting grew bigger and wider, still those tufty bits remained. Even Prince William for far too long clung on to what he had left until he welcomed the wonders of a set of clippers into his life. I don’t imagine he’s one for DIY grooming though. He probably has someone for that. And to clean up the mess afterwards!
“It’s not a bald spot, it’s a solar panel for a sex machine”.
That was the joke going around back when I was a kid. Remember that one? You could buy a t-shirt with it on. It was even on Birthday Cards! I think I might have even seen it on an apron!
My mum told me, “Don’t you worry son. You won’t take after your dad. You’ll take after my dad. He still had a full head of hair when he died”. (She’s not northern. I don’t know why I just read that back in a northern voice.) So anyway, I grew up taking my hair for granted, putting it through all sorts of crap. Highlights, straighteners, clay, putty. I hated my hair. I always hated it. It never behaved or did what I wanted it to. I could never style it like I’d see other people style their hair. Even the hairdressers gave up trying after a while. Just look how unhappy I look below with my hair!
So you could say that its quite ironic that I’m now in my late 30’s and my hair on the top of my head has all but departed these shores. And boy do I miss it. I’d give anything to have that annoying, thick, unstylable, went ginger once when I tried to dye it blonde, mop of hair on top of my head.
I’m not sure if it was a good thing or not that I started losing mine from the front and not the back. It didn’t recede evenly though. It was a pain in the ass when I had it, and it continued to be a pain in the ass as I was losing it. But I did what most blokes do when they realise their forehead is growing. Style your hair forwards, to the side, grow it longer, the usual tricks. I had a good go at growing it. It was a right mess though, and gave me all sorts of different looks along the way. None any good.
So then began the process of getting it cut shorter and shorter. Sometimes by choice, sometimes because you’ve tried a new barber and their interpretation of “just a trim on top” is to keep going until they see skin!
I’m now a proud owner of my own set of clippers and opt for the full on “zero” all over. Not wanting to follow in my Dads footsteps with those tufty bits. It took my mum some getting used to, and anyone else who remembers the “skinhead” era for that matter.
I’d been a “number one” for a while, but recently switched to the next one down on my clippers. Event though there’s only a 1/8 of an inch difference between the two grades, all of a sudden people at work are asking “where’s your hair gone?” and “going for a new look?” How’s about – alright dickhead, a man’s losing his hair here, no need to point it out. It’s not like I left work on Tuesday with a pony tail and turned up on Wednesday with a short back and sides.
I know not everyone in my situation misses their hair. My mate Chris lost it in his 20’s and couldn’t care less. But I do. And strangely, it really pisses me off when I see people with shit hair cuts.
There are some shocking cuts out there. I should know, I’ve had plenty over the years. But there are some people who don’t even try. Don’t even make an effort. I went on holiday the other month and there were clearly people there who hadn’t had a “holiday haircut”. I mean, who doesn’t have a “holiday haircut”? If you’re a bloke and you’re going on holiday, there’s always two things you need. “Holiday trainers” that you don’t wear until you’re going to the airport so they’re clean and brand spanking new looking! And then you always go for a “holiday haircut” as close to the day you fly as possible.
If you cant be bothered to make an effort with your hair, you don’t deserve that gorgeous mop on top of your head. That hair should go to someone who’d appreciate it. Someone who’ll look after it.
There’s a new barbers that’s opened in our village, and I had a peek through the window the other week. Looks pretty nice inside. A burgundy Chesterfield Sofa. A GQ Magazine on the table. Sky Sports News on the TV. Some geezer with a sleeve wielding a cut throat. They won’t be taking my money though. I won’t be spending any of my time in there. Those days are gone.
I remember going to the hairdressers when I was a teenager, before all those trendy barber shops started popping up on the high streets. There was a place in Ilkeston called Peter James. Ladies and gents Hairdressers. I was one of the weekend crowd who would pop his head in on a Saturday, and if it wasn’t too busy take a seat and wait his turn. And that’s where it began, the game of hairdresser roulette. You know the game. There’s 6 people waiting to get their hair cut, and 4 hairdressers cutting hair. You look around at the people ahead of you, look for which people are nearly finished, and try and work out which hairdresser you’re gonna get!
Who’s it going to be? James, the owner? A bloke with the most pristine designer stubble you’ve ever seen. Or that older woman Julie? Who you’re sure took a chunk out the back of your head last time. Maybe that new girl? She was only sweeping hair off the floor last time you were there. Or Debbie? The most gorgeous and sexy woman to have ever run a comb through your hair. The one for whom you used to wash your hair before you got there, just incase you landed her. The one who once gently blew the hair off the back of your neck and you swear once grazed your ear with her left boob. On purpose!
Then you hear those three words.
“Who’s next please?”
Ah shit, its Julie.