Hair-rais­ing news heard at the mart

Irish Examiner - Farming - - NEWS -

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.

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