The bald truth of getting older

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There was a right royal fuss last week when the modern face of our most famous family – Prince William – got himself a new haircut.

It wasn’t just the fact that the future king decided to go for broke and have a “buzz cut” which generated almost as much interest as anything David Beckham did in his pomp but also the not so small matter of the reported cost – £180.

That’s right, nearly two hundred quid for a haircut, which probably won’t be as expensive as his wife’s bill, but when you are talking about less than 10 minutes in the barber’s chair while he moans how expensive business rates are, it is more than a bit steep.

For that sort of money, I would want my barnet tended to by Vidal Sassoon himself – a bit of a tall order I grant you, given that he has been in the great salon in the sky for the past five years. But the Duke of Cambridge isn’t your average 30-something dad and, as many cyber wags pointed out last week, technically, we are paying for it.

I don’t begrudge him his new look, in fact we want the frontman for the next generation of royals to look like he belongs in the 21st century, rather than a refugee from the 1940s. In fact, I actually have a great deal of sympathy for the bloke – his privileged position and inherited fortune aside – because I too know what it is like to have a very wide parting. From my late teens, it was pretty clear that I wouldn’t ever have a mop top like my Madchester heroes, the Happy Mondays, rather that it was more likely I would end up like the Mitchell brothers of EastEnders fame.

Although I have been receding for the past 20-odd years, I can’t yet be classed as bald and, as my barber so kindly put it when I visited this weekend, I am “holding on to it still.”

For how long I hold on to my hair remains to be seen but I promised myself long ago that I would let it go with dignity, which is largely due to the bad example set by my long since dear departed dad. Back in the 1980s, he was well known in junior football circles as the dad-coach with the Bobby Charlton strands of hair, which he insisted on combing across his otherwise desolate pate.