I hate washing my hair

I hate washing my hair, as I did this morning, then was reminded, that the ever creeping years of age have decided to go from the top down.  Shampoo, a good soak and massage, then the rinse and horror of horrors as I look down into the sink and the water drains away.  If my eyes were worse than they are I wouldn't worry because I wouldn't be able to see it.  Strands and strands of hair.  It's becoming finer, it used to be thick.  I'm losing it.  Down the plug hole.  Or just left there as a little message to my conscious mind for something I'd rather was in my subconscious mind.  I'm going thin on top, it's progressing.  How many hair washes have I got left before there is just not enough to cover my head?  Not many at this rate.  In a couple of years I'll have a shiny top with a parting the size of a motorway and nice neat tufts around my ears.  It's OK for my ears perhaps the remaining hair will distract from the tough obstreperous strands which are trying to grow out of my ears. I hate washing my hair.  Maybe if I never washed it again then it wouldn't fall out.  Then nobody would notice.  Look who goes there.  Yes it's baldy, the bald headed man.  Hiya baldy I have some wax, would you like to rub it in, they might call you mahogany head.  Let it breath, have the lot off, even down the sides.  If you're bald be proud of it, don't hide it away.  And certainly don't put a rug on top.  Syrup of fig to those who know a little Cockney, i.e. wig.

Am I bothered?  Yes I am,  it's a marker a point of no return, unless you happen to be a wealthy soccer player like Rooney.  When I see those beautiful dark brown strands in the sink I feel like holding a wake, I'm in mourning for my lost hair.  I get bothered every time I wash it, at least a couple of times a week.  When i have it cut short then I don't worry because I just think my head needs air.  For we all know air equals hair, it grows.  But it's not returning.  When I see Sparkling she can tell the difference.  She is so sweet, and doesn't make much of an ado about it.  She just has a face, the face which says oh dear, then looks away in an effort to think of a comforting reply.  She can see it.  So can the rest of the world.  It's not a thing you can hide, not really.  Hats only go so far and everyone looks good in a hat.  But then there comes a time when the hat has to come off.  Then everyone knows what's underneath.  Not blooming much, that's what.  Not much at all.

Things could be worse I say to myself.  I am not Samson.  I never have been Samson to tell the truth.  As I get older and rounder I'm much closer to Friar Tuck.  I really don't want to become a monk and wear a brown robe.  Although it would be a good way to disguise the lack of hair it's a complete lifestyle change.   Then I don't want to put my head in the sand either and pretend it's not happening, because when I pull my head out of the sand I'd of left a pile of hair there.  I keep going back to the option of short hair cuts.  Face up to it.  Bring it on hair lost, I'll cut you off before you get a chance to fall out.  This way I've got control over it.  What can I do?  Not much, just say thank you hair for being here, although it's your time to go.  Just find a nice breeze and go with the wind, but whatever you do drop in the sink because it doesn't leave me in the pink.  More of a blue.  Toddle loo and ta ta, my brown stranded friends.  I'll hold back the tears and thank you for the years, but it's time to say ta ra.