Like many men of a certain age I worried about losing my hair. Unlike most, however, I was just eight years old and the worry was precipitated not by a receding hairline but by the sorry tale of a neighbour who'd gone bald overnight after his house, built without planning permission, became the subject of a demolition order, writes Conor Pope
Despite having no major conveyancing issues on my horizon, I was impressed and recognised that sudden hair loss would guarantee pariah status in an unforgiving 4th class. An entirely irrational fear that I would wake up bald as a cue ball enveloped me and disturbed my sleep for weeks.
After my hair showed no sign of shedding for some months I forgot all about the problem. It didn't forget about me.
In my early 20s, I developed what I liked to call a widow's peak - a V-shaped hairline. It was fine. James Dean and Morrissey both had them so there was no need for concern. No, really, everything was grand.
This self-deception had a limited shelf life and, as the years passed, it grew - as sure as my hair didn't - clear that I hadn't been gifted with lifelong locks.
Then, with my 30s looming and my hairline growing more Jimmy Sommerville than Jimmy Dean, I was faced with a number of unpalatable options.
There was Regaine. At about £30 a month for the rest of my life, it was dismissed as expensive and depressing. Rubbing potions into the scalp morning and night for ever while endlessly examining the hairline for erosion sounded miserable.
Not to mention the fact that the light downy growth promised for most sounded about as attractive as stitching mouse hide to my head.
Oral medications such as Propecia were rejected for similar reasons and because the (admittedly remote) possibility of side effects brought on by messing about with my hormones was terrifying.
Hair transplant surgery never got a look-in because of the cost and the inescapable need to visit a hospital for the procedure.
And having someone point lasers at my head in order to stimulate growth just sounded silly.
Wigs and toupees and weaves were discounted because of Jackie Healy Rae and the deserved abuse that would have been heaped upon my shoulders had I suddenly arrived in work of a Monday morning sporting hair belonging to someone (or thing) else.
And, not being entirely delusional, the comb-over never got a look-in.
So with all the options dismissed, and before my hair shed its last, I took a blade to it and saved it the bother. I was lucky that my decision was taken at a time when the skinned head was no longer the preserve of the National Front and Right Said Fred.
The shaved head has been a revelation. It's low cost and low maintenance and no one, not least myself, has any idea how much actual hair I actually have anymore. It could be enough to grow impressive dreadlocks - but probably isn't - or it could be just a few strands but I have no idea and no need to know.
It's not been all good news, of course. The wind can no longer blow through my hair and my chances of being elected president of the US have been savagely reduced. Getting caught in hailstones is bloody sore and the one time I allowed my head get sunburned I was forced to spend a whole week looking like a scabrous leper.
These are problems, certainly, but not insurmountable ones and sunblock and a hat are a whole lot cheaper than surgery or sprays.