March Hair

I found myself staring in the mirror this morning. I was partly taking stock of my face, considering whether my 37 years were written all over me or whether Old Father Time and his bit on the side, Mother Nature, had been more generous. I was also patrolling for random hairs growing from obscure places.

Up to my early twenties I didn’t have to do anything in relation to nasal hair. Then suddenly one day they just sprouted with all the suddenness and proliferation of Daffodills in springtime. There they were, escaping from the confines of my nasal passage and protruding out of my nostrils like little spider’s legs. A small pair of scissors has since been employed to tame this hair that seems intent on forcing its way out of my face.

Next it was the eyebrows. It started as one or two that decided, just for a laugh, to grow inordinately longer than the others. Now several more have joined in on the wheeze and, if left alone to their own devices, they would go for the full Denis Healey.

More scissors and, when I’m feeling brave, tweezers are employed on these little devils. Of course I could go to the popular and exceedingly cheap barber’s shop in Bourne where every man of a certain age in the town goes to get broadly the same haircut. They offer to trim your eyebrows if they’re becoming particularly wild and unkempt. I’ve seen them do it with my own eyes. Mind you they also sell knock off DVDs of films still in the cinema, if you speak to the right person. Apparently they’re good quality but you occasionally see someone get up and go to the loo in the cinema. I’m not joking, this is exactly what the guy told me. I get my hair cut somewhere else now.

So, after a few years of getting in the habit of keeping these hairy problems under control I developed a further hirsute issue. As the sun shone brightly though our bathroom window one morning it illuminated a sneaky hair that was obviously envious of the fun the nose and eyebrow hair were having and sought to grow without me noticing, this time from my earlobe. Just the one, but there it was, reaching for the stars. I was astounded and horrified in equal measure. I’d heard of ear hair but that really was an old man’s thing. It was promptly plucked and I added earlobes to the list of fertile hair zones for future patrols.

I don’t think I’m a particularly vain individual but I promised myself as a young man that I would at least keep myself reasonably presentable, especially in old age. When I worked behind the bar in a real ale pub I was morbidly fascinated with an old codger called Jim who used to come in each day. It was obvious he shaved but he always seemed to completely miss the area just under his nostrils, and not just on the odd occasion. From the look of him, he missed shaving it every single time. So the hairs just grew and it looked like a weird minimalist moustache.

I could only assume that either his eyesight was so poor he didn’t notice or that there were no mirrors in his house. The third option of course was that he didn’t give a toss. He was an old man who lived alone, he didn’t socialise very much in the pub, and so he probably reasoned that there was no need to bother with some trivial facial hair that’s a ball ache to get rid of. It didn’t affect his beer drinking so why care?

Mind you he also spared little concern with his fingernails either and the cringiest feeling in the world was when he handed over his change but as he did so, his unclipped nails would scrape slightly against my palm. It makes my stomach churn just thinking about it.

So as hair starts to grow, thus it disappears from areas you’d rather it didn’t. Actually, I have fared better in this department than early signs would suggest. If you’d asked me at age 21 what my hair situation would be at age 37 I would have said “non-existent”. I was pessimistic about the whole situation as I was certain that I would be bald by now. It started receding early doors but then suddenly seemed to stop.

It’s a good thing; I don’t look right with very short hair so baldness wouldn’t agree with me. If things change I may have to consider my options. I don’t really want to go for the ‘Jason Gardiner off Dancing on Ice’ approach of having hair from other parts of my body sewn into my head in the hope they’ll grow.

I guess that’s what he had done. If I did they could take some of my nasal hair, that’s pretty rampant, although the texture might be a little unappealing.

Other than that it’s the Elton John approach, and I don’t mean adopting a baby with my civil partner and supporting Watford Football Club, although I am happy to belt out a number on the piano at a funeral. Which reminds me, I recently dreamt that I was at a wake in a pub and Freddie Flintoff was playing on a piano in the corner, but very badly. He was upsetting the mourners so I was tasked with the job of luring Freddie away from the piano with a pint of beer and a whiskey chaser. It sounds quite plausible so maybe that wasn’t actually a dream.

No, if the old barnet starts to wear a little thin I may have to go for a syrup. Or a weave. Or just wear hats all the time.

Finally on the hair front, and this is what I really noticed today, was that I have another two grey hairs. I’ve not done badly on this front either but in the past few weeks I’ve noticed an outbreak. It’s not just the odd one either, glinting in my sideburns like a little silvery beacon every now and then. Now they have taken up arms and are on the march across the rest of my head. I’ll be honest, it’s not really noticeable at the moment, but I’ve spotted the culprits and, rest assured, this time next year they will have spread themselves far and wide, unless I fight back with chemical warfare.

They know I’m not afraid to use hair dyes of mass destruction. They’re still reeling from me dying them ginger back in the 1990s, by choice. I think that’s why my hair stopped receding, they could see I was in on the joke and decided that I looked more ridiculous with orange hair than no hair. They must have ruptured themselves laughing the day I mis-read the instructions on the ‘pillar box red’ hair dye and ended up with bright pink locks.

So, all in all, not bad. Could be worse. Apart from several parts of my face taking on werewolf qualities I’ve not weathered to such an unrecognisable state yet. I’ve not got a face that people refer to as ‘lived in’ when they really mean aged and craggy.

Of course the laws of entropy dictate that the only way is down so the next few years will really test my vanity. I don’t fancy the idea of needles being stuck in my face so that’s botox out. No really, I’ve had a needle stuck in my face before when I had a cyst removed from just next to my nose back in 1991. The surgeon was a plummy voiced alpha female who disapproved when I flinched. She made some barbed comment that I should “be a man” about it which only made me want to stick something sharp in her face to see how she liked it.

Mind you, it could have been worse. She was at least injecting me with anaesthetic. The guy in the cubicle next to me couldn’t have an anaesthetic as his cyst was on his testicles. ‘Ouch’ doesn’t quite cover it.

I think I’ve written enough for one evening, it all seems to have got rather grim. So, to summarise, I may be getting older and enjoying the thrill of sudden and irrepressible ear hair, but with appropriate pruning I won’t be scaring small children or those of a nervous disposition just yet. Oh, and I might wear a wig if I go bald. I’m sure no-one will notice.