Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow...

'Just take a seat, sir' the young lass said in the barber's shop in downtown Dalry. 'I'll be with you in a minute'.

Pleased at being afforded such courtesy - and, believe me, this is becoming an all too rare occurrence these days  - I sat back in the large, black chair and noticed the girl in question strategically placing the 'Pensioners £5' sign in a prominent position on the shop window. I stared at my unbecoming features in the large mirror in front of me and reached a swift and inescapable conclusion.

Bloody, hell, my mother was right - I do look old.

It's been a trying year for the Auld Reekie Ranter for reasons well documented elsewhere in these ramblings. And it appears the stresses and strains are taking their toll. My dear mother opined the other day that wrinkles were appearing on my strained face at a fair rate of knots and there can be no denying she's right.

My daughters have long commented, somewhat unfairly in my view, about my lack of hair and how going for a haircut need only take five minutes of my time. People at the office, who really should know better, smirk at my ever decreasing hairline. The lovely Marion, who has been a tower of strength to me these last few months, also takes great delight in pointing out my follically challenged status although calling me 'Slapheid' is, in my view, a tad harsh and uncalled for. Even my soon to be 5 year old grand-daughter Hannah, on using me as a human climbing frame, recently opined 'Papa, you have a big hole in your hair...'

Having turned 50 earlier this year and having endured a tough few months, perhaps it's no surprise I'm looking more and more like the stereotypical grandfather. When I reached the half century in February, I put the comments of some of those who expressed their surprise at me reaching the milestone - 'Really? I thought you were 50 years ago' - down to the typical smart arse responses of my fellow Scots. However, I now concede they may have had a point. A feeling enhanced when a girl gave up her seat for me on the bus on the way home tonight. Mercifully, the driver thought against lowering the front of the bus to help me get on in the first place but I suspect he had considered it.

At least the pleasant young girl in the barber's shop stopped short of charging me the pensioner's rate for my haircut and charged me £8. Which, for the amount of hair I have, according to some people, works out about a pound a hair...