|O you cunning Devil|
Not everyone can be blessed with a generous mop of hair like your gracious blog host. Going bald to some degree is the lot for the majority of men as they age. Blame it on genetics and that pesky male hormone, testosterone. Most men embrace their baldness with dignity and either shave their head completely or endure a functional hairstyle in keeping with their follicularly challenged status. Not everyone goes graciously and a few will attempt to mask their bald spot with tricho-gymnastics. The dreaded comb over is often the result. Hair whipped up from the back and sides straddle a bald pate to form an unholy abomination. Sadly efforts to conceal baldness only serve to bring attention to the very thing which bald men would like to conceal. Daft buggers.
Back in the 80s a good friend of mine was the recipient of typical male pattern baldness. He was also a very vain fellow and decided on the hair transplant solution. Off he went to a prestigious clinic in
and after handing over ridiculous amounts of cash he became the proud owner of two lines of hair plugs placed in regular array across his ill-favoured bonce. All this was reminiscent of a sapling plantation after a hurricane. If he thought he could hide the procedure from the viewing public he hadn't accounted for the swelling. The front of his head swelled mightily and bossed out like a 'bossing out' kind of thing. London
Anyway, his close friends were totally unaware of the procedure, so when he turned up at the local pub sprouting half a melon atop his noodle he caused some consternation especially as he didn't explain the phenomenon and acted as if all was fine and dandy. Of course, his friends stared but said nowt. Inevitably our friend had to go for a pee and as he left my mate turned to me and whispered: "Dolphin head". Hence forth, and in polite circles, he was known as 'Flipper'. Eventually, after a few beers we managed to coax the story out of a very sheepish and very drunk mate. He hadn't fully appreciated the side effects from the procedure and had been told by the clinic receptionist (what, no doctor?) that there might be the possibility of some minor swelling. Understandably the esteemed clinic forgot to mention that he might turn into Frankenstein's monster after a heavy head banging session.
|"What's that Flipper? Little Johnny has got his cock jammed in the spa pool's jets, again."|
Our poor friend related how he had been walking the dog earlier in the day and had come across a woman on the forest path. Her reaction on confronting 'Flipper' was one of shock and awe. Luckily my quick-witted friend managed to blurt out: "It's okay, I've just had a brain operation." Her verbal response will be forever lost as everyone in ear-shot collapsed in paroxysms of merriment. There wasn't a dry eye, or seat, in the pub.
As for the transplant hiding his bald spot- sadly it did no such thing. The sprouting 'thingys' looked totally artificial and fooled no one. Eventually, our poor friend was reduced to combing his hair forward to hide the plugs of despair. Such is vanity!
Don't try this at home, folks