Hair we go, hair we go, hair..

Comb it forwards, backwards, sideways, straight up in the air. Make yourself look an utter tool with a man-bun, a ponytail, even a dreadful crimped mullet. Dye it green and make your grandma vomit.

But what if you are unable to do any of these things?

What when your crowning glory, your lovely flowing locks, begin to vanish, one hair at a time down the shower plughole?

Welcome to my world.

Having spent my youth and young manhood being what can only be described as a heavily thatched tonsorial peacock, the final act, decline and fall, ensued in my late 20s.

A gradual creeping awareness dawned. The great shining mop hitherto flaunted so glibly was slowly, surely, neither quite so shiny nor moppish.

Less volume. Less lustre. The odd flash of pink through chestnut brown. One hair at a time, sweet Jesus...

But shoot forward 20 years and you’re still getting away with it. The flashy barnets are long gone, 20 years into a neat short back and sides, with a crafty comb here, a nudge there, a sweep of the wax. Not a Charlton flap, no, nor even close to that madness. Just employing the same techniques on a more modest scale.

And getting away with it. Getting away with it right up until this week, when a trusted barber opines it might be time to bite the bullet.

Turn it in. Have the lot off, mate.

Don’t panic. DON’T PANIC.

Panic leads to anxiety, and stress will only loosen yet further the few strands clinging precariously to your failing scalp.

Relax. RELAX. You have options. Billions of shattered men have tumbled into the black hole you now call home, and a global industry has sprung up on their backs to ride that sorrow and shame all the way to the bank.

Cures. Camouflage. Subterfuge. Rubbish to rub on your head, a plethora of ineffectual gunks, lotions, ointments. State of the art wigs. Toupees. Scalp doilies. You could get a hat. A hat.

That’s it. Become one of the indoor hat men. Won’t be so bad, will it?

Won’t be so bad.