Coiffure calamity

I am a martyr to Bad Hair Days. In the past couple of years, I’ve discovered that the only way to stop such days occurring is to get my hair cut very short. This, at least, does prevent those awful moments when I look in the mirror in the morning and discover that my hair has formed itself into bizarre shapes that defy gravity and refuse to be styled by even the most vigorous attack of combing. However, the regular appointment at the hairdresser to get a pretty drastic no.2 crop has simply revealed, in turn, that I’ve got a funny-shaped head. So it’s a dilemma - do I keep my hair slightly longer and risk the living nightmare of the Bad Hair Day, or do I reveal the peculiar shape of my head to the entire world? Decisions, decisions.

As it turns out, I’ve recently been fighting shy of the hairdresser’s all-over clipper attack, and as my hair has grown a little longer I’ve discovered something that puts every Bad Hair Day I’ve ever suffered in the shade. The dreaded sign of ageing has arrived.

I’m going grey.

Before you accuse me of being entirely vain - which I’m not, honestly - I should add that I think I’ve probably been getting grey flecks for a while, but that such tell-tale signs have been safely hidden in difficult-to-see areas or snipped away before they became visible. Looking at the men in my family line, I think I can safely say that I will never lose my hair - my maternal grandfather, in particular, proudly maintained Richard Harris style flowing locks into his early 80s. However, the downside of this family lineage is that I will probably go grey relatively early, and that the resulting shade will be dull and uninspiring - as if someone has poured the contents of an ashtray over my head - rather than smooth and silvery (see ‘silver-haired mongoose’ Michael Parkinson or Sean Connery for inspiration).

Even so, I wouldn’t be averse to a little greying at the sides, giving me a certain distinguished appearance. That’s not the problem. No, the problem with my few grey hairs is where they are appearing. At this stage, it’s probably easier if I show you a couple of grainy images:

     

If you’re of a certain age, you’ll recognise the gentleman with a twinkle in his eye. Yes, it’s Dickie Davies, genial but ever so slightly scary host of World of Sport, a programme that will forever be synonymous with crap Saturday afternoon television of the 1970s and early 1980s, back in the days when British TV had only three channels. While Grandstand (hosted by Frank Bough in his leather chaps and suspenders) may have had the pick of the A-list sporting events, World of Sport was left with the dregs - wrestling and speedway. And wrestling. Plus a little more wrestling for good measure. (These days, of course, people who know about sport tell me that the BBC hold the rights to show nothing more than Championship Curling and Pro-Celebrity Tiddlywinks, whilst ITV and Sky have bought everything else. How times change).

Enough about sport, though. It’s Dickie’s hair that I’m interested in. Look at it. Now look at it again. You see what I’m talking about, don’t you? In fact, admit it - you can’t take your eyes off it, can you? It’s that greyish-white flash of hair right at the front, which either screams “Skunk!” or suggests that somebody has unfortunately dribbled custard on his head. And that, dear readers, is exactly where my grey hairs are appearing too.

Presently, my distinctive grey hairs number only a few, and they’re probably visible to no one else but me (even then I have to narrow my eyes to see them). But my worst fear, the fear that roots me to the ground each morning as I stand in front of the mirror, is that in a few years I might have my very own unmistakeable Dickie Davies’ Wisp. Oh, the shame.

I may start watching those TV advertisements for Just For Men shampoo-in hair colour with a new sense of interest.