Can't live with them... can't broil them over a slow heat....

A very large gentleman who goes to the same gym as me (the one which involves standing by a counter and lifting containers of beer continually to one's mouth and swallowing the contents) was standing in a car park the other day speaking with a woman. If hairstyles are an indicator of attitude to life, then his was no-nonsense shorn-baldy goodness.

As I passed with my ponytail swinging good-humouredly from beneath the cover of my classy baseball cap, I noticed a Mini-He about three years of age standing on the kerbside.

"Look at that man's hair!" the small one uttered in frank astonishment.

It is doubtless a source of great wonder in the world of this young man that humankind is not monopolised by the louse-phobic styling of a shorn pate.

"Quaint," I thought. "My hair, young man, may be down my back but yours is... down on the floor! Hur! Hur! Hur!"

As I sloped off into the distance in seach of a bus-stop, the cry went up behind me, fading slowy into the distance:

"Look at that man's hair!

Look at that man's hair!

Look at that man's hair!"