Hair everywhere ... except for my head

‘GoIt’s it’s a forth rumouredpity and nobody multiply’God told said. Or the maybehairs on they me were head. told, Now and I’m just stuck wasn’t with listeninga ‘bonce’ that’s permanently glistening. It of shines white with patent-leather.all the lustre I duringcould be inclementused as a weather. lighthouse My comb is now redundant, all my follicles retired, Shampoo’s superfluous and no Brylcreem’s required. My scalp’s a smooth surface for the sun’s rays to smother, My centre parting stretches from one ear to the other. My forehead now finishes at the nape of me neck, I wanted movie-star looks — but I didn’t mean Shrek. I’m freezing in winter, but sweat so in summer, I could be full-time employment for your average plumber. What girl would ever want me as her future bridegroom? With a head like two ears stuck on a pale-pink balloon. I’m so desperate for growth on my scalp’s barren skin I’m now envious of that hair on the wart on gran’s chin. Is it God’s little joke, this lack of cranial-crop? To give me hair in every orifice, but none up on top. For years I’ve watched me ‘barnet’ disappear down the plughole Now I swear those same hairs have reappeared in me lug-hole. Hairs in your ears, I mean, why have we got ’em? In my list of requirements, they’re right at the bottom. Mine are ugly and wiry, and at their wax-coated peak If you were to set one alight, it would burn for a week. And what is the point of having hairs up your nose? One or two is all right, but I’ve got septum-hedgerows. I’m hirsute of hands, my chest by werewolves revered, While each of my armpits sports a magnificent beard. The hair on my back is just too lustrous to describe — Attenborough once searched it, looking for a lost pygmy tribe. I can grow hair with ease, between toe nail and chin, But north of my eyebrows I’ve got nothing but skin. I’d been off work with stress, you just don’t feel too great Having less hair than a cue-ball, when you’re just 28. Then I met a young tradesman, with an even less hirsute dome, So great was his loss, even his eyebrows had left home. And I watched him at work, this young carpet-fitter, He was hair-free, but carefree, not angry or bitter. He was my equal in years, but my superior in mind, Nature’s snatch-of-his-thatch had not his personality defined. In truth his extreme baldness, he seemed to embrace At one point, his mate, on his bald head drew a face. I He with asked saida how thatchhis baldnesshe so stayed reduced.wasso positive,his ally He— it said was he chemicallyknew that induced.the loss of Was each the hair visibleon his evidence,head And anotherif baldness rogue was cell the was price dead. He he said had heto pay paid forit with survival pleasure, to halt the reaper’s arrival. Thenhe carried cheerfullyon with whistling,his job. Humbled, I crumbled, and masked an internal sob. Only the laying of carpet, could bring this man to his knees I’d been broken by baldness, but he wouldn’t kneel to disease. They were really surprised, when I arrived at work next day ‘Thought you were off with depression till the end of May?’ I said: ‘I was, but I met a man with a face on his head. The face never spoke, it was just everything it said.’ They thought I was mad, some sort of mental-defective I wasn’t mad, just glad, I’d found a thing called perspective. That evening I knelt, on my new carpets, soft pile And prayed he’d be acquitted, in life’s ultimate trial. On my knees, just as he was, I said a short tearful prayer For that man, that showed this man, the unimportance of hair. G. Cope, London E14.