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CAOIMHE YOUNG'S COLUMN: I like a man with a fine head of skin.

I DON'T care what anyone says - bald men ARE sexy. Take Star Trek's Jean Luc Picard - he oozes sexuality. Ruairi Quinn's not bad either.

So I ask you, why do baldies go to such lengths to hide their lockless crowns?

Imagine Capt. Picard with hair - it would be like Sophia Loren without lips.

But when a follicly-challenged bloke tries to defy nature by wearing a hairpiece or combing his few remaining strands over his head, it goes from the sublime to touching upon the ridiculous.

It's as if he has a massive wart on his nose - you just can't help gawping at it.

So there I was, out for dinner in a posh restaurant with a load of wrinklies when over the soup Mr "I swear I have lovely hair" chose to engage me in conversation.

I was trying hard to look into his eyes and not at the wavy mat on his head.

I was trying so hard I was making him nervous.

His wig was blacker than boot polish and he was in his early 60s. His poor wife, I thought.

I mean, you don't dream of lying on a desert island or by a romantic lake worrying that your lover's hairpiece might take off with the first breeze.

It was soon time for the main course but I still couldn't look anywhere but at the hairy top of his cranium.

All I wanted to do was tell him to take that ridiculous rug off his head.

Instead, I concentrated on pushing my poached salmon around with my fork.

It's amazing how big a plate can become when it's suddenly the centre of your universe.

I wondered if he took if off at night like a women taking off her make-up?

Maybe he had one of those polystyrene heads in the bathroom where he could place his hairy friend at night.

BUT back to the meal. My poached salmon wouldn't be bullied any more so I tried to keep the conversation light.

I was succeeding until he took out a comb and applied it to his 'hair'. At the dinner table. I couldn't believe it.

No man with real locks would do that.

"Nice hair," I said, before I could stop myself.

His wife smiled and said: "Yes, isn't it? Is yours dyed dear?"

The witch.

"Just a few highlights," I said.

"Yes, well," she said, "it is important to brighten it up when it's that mousey colour." I didn't open my mouth again, except to eat. I'd been put in my place.

I eventually left with my REAL hair and yer man, with his wig still resting on his head, winked at me.

It doesn't end there, though. Suddenly they're everywhere - I'm being stalked by baldies.

They're in the pubs, they're sweeping the streets, they're driving BMWs.

And they're proud of their hairless heads.

They present them to the world in style, while I pay pounds 70 each time to brighten up my mousey locks.

I salute you Jean Luc Picard - the man who baldly goes where no man has gone before.
No portion of this article can be reproduced without the express written permission from the copyright holder.
Copyright 1999 Gale, Cengage Learning. All rights reserved.

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Title Annotation:Features
Author:Young, Caoimhe
Publication:The Mirror (London, England)
Date:Mar 20, 1999
Previous Article:CAOIMHE YOUNG'S COLUMN: What the doctor ordered.
Next Article:Comment: Hippie heroes may prove our last hope.

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