Low life | 7 September 2017

‘Have you ever thought of having some colour put in, love?’ said Julian as he shaved my neck with a razor and performed other small finishing touches with his scissor tips. I was sitting on a kitchen chair in his half-finished kitchen extension and while he worked I bowled underarm tennis balls to the schnauzer puppy. Julian was referring to the sides of my head, which, freshly shorn, were bright silver. Over my dead body, Julian, old son, I said. Old men with dyed hair look ridiculous. One can always tell at a glance whether a man has dyed his hair. My friend Trevor dyes his hair himself, I said, and on occasion I’ve seen it black, brown, ginger and grey all at the same time. It’s so sad.

Ah, but hair products have moved on, said Julian. For example, there is now a stain on the market that disguises silver hair and the colour looks completely natural. It’s a stain, not a dye, that’s the difference, he said. It’s simple to put on and needs redoing about every six weeks. Julian’s own head was closely shaved all over leaving a dark stubble. I said that the most extreme measure I might take would be to have my hair completely shaved off, like his, only my head is knobbly potato-shaped and it doesn’t suit me. But to have it coloured — no way.

‘Shows how much you know,’ said Julian.

His ‘hair’ was in fact a head tattoo, he said. I did a double take in the mirror. It was unbelievably elaborate and I complimented him on the verisimilitude. Yes, it’s amazing what we old geezers can do nowadays to stay young, he said, whipping the cape away with a flourish.