Hair-raising news heard at the mart
I have some right bad news for you this week. It’s going to upset you greatly.
It’s nothing at all to do with the lousy weather, or the lousy prices we are getting for our cattle.
It’s much worse than that. I’m going bald, and there’s no point in me beating about the bush any longer.
I attended a mart during the week where this fellow felt obliged to inform me that he hardly recognised me on account of my balding head. “Your hair,” says he, “reminds me of a sweeping brush that has done too much sweeping.”
And I wouldn’t mind, but the very same man breaking the bad news had hardly a rib of hair to call his own. Then again, I suppose a fellow in his position had nothing to lose in revealing the truth. He was like the hurler on the ditch, he could say what he liked, for he was no longer in the game. “What have you been doing to yourself?” he asked by way of concern, and he trying to figure out where it had all gone so wrong. And damn it all, since his startling revelation, I have been doing little else but scratching my head, wondering the same thing. I have been literally pulling out my own hair, in a desperate bid to find an answer as to why it’s falling out.
In all honesty, when you look at it head on, there should be no reason for my hair to be coming apart at the seams at this early stage. Sure, I’m still only a young fellow. A mere sapling of a lad in farming terms. A kid heading on for 48 later this year. In many ways I’m still wet behind the ears.
It is a classic case of premature balding, if ever there was one.
The only change to my life I can recall making in recent times was my decision to give up the drink, beginning on Ash Wednesday. For the duration of Lent, I abstained totally and utterly from all forms of alcoholic beverage, other than indulging in a few pints on the odd Sunday and Paddy’s Day, which is your entitlement under the rules of the scheme. It’s written there somewhere in the small print.
So, the only conclusion I can come to is that whatever nutrients are present in a pint of stout, are badly needed to keep a man’s hair in prime condition. On account of my fasting, not only did I suffer down below but it looks like I suffered up above too. Never before has a man given so much for the greater good. My reward may well be great in heaven, but it’s a poor consolation for my present condition.
I could always cover my head with a cap or hat to fool the world into thinking I have a full flowing glorious mane underneath. Alas, you can’t wear a cap or hat to every event and gathering. It has to come off eventually, even if ’tis only in the bed, or in the bath.
My hair now is like the grass fields of Ireland, it’s badly in need of a growth spurt.
The grass fields of Ireland will eventually grow, once the weather gets its act together.
I cannot be as confident for my hair. I’ve heard that once it’s gone, it’s gone for good.
So I’m putting out an appeal to all those who might have the solution to boost my ailing crop. Please contact me immediately with information regarding remedies, ointments or powders that might return my hair to its former glory. Time may be against us. What’s hair today can be gone tomorrow.
Only one thing worse for Denis than the lack of grass in the fields: the lack of hair on his head. Maybe they are connected.
Hair today, gone tomorrow; Denis faces up to the bald truth.