COULD long hair among men be making a comeback? I’ve no scientific proof for such a bombshell prediction. However, I’ve studied the entrails of my breakfast cereal carefully and, if you’re a betting person, you should scuttle doon to the bookies noo to place a wad on a forthcoming follicular extravaganza among the nation’s males (bookie: “Say what now?”).

The only thing vaguely approaching evidence for my hunch is the number of “reaction” videos on YouTube, where young persons, mainly in America, watch 1970s rock bands and are often overawed. In particular, they – women especially – say how fantastic the men looked with long hair.

This ought to be a given. It’s as clear as the nose on your chin. Aesthetically, long hair looks better. However, it doesn’t look macho or tough and, alas, it was women, in the era of Thatcher, who – developing a taste for power and brutishness – pushed men into having short hair.

This must change again soon, not least because everyone could see that footballers, lacking access to hair surgeons during the lockdown, looked so much better, if less thuggish, for having longer hair, even if not as long as in the 1960s and 1970s heyday that I’m lecturing you about here.

Life comes in cycles. It’s interwoven like a clever hairpiece. Hair, troosers and so forth link in to the wider political and cultural, er, matrix (shut up; I’m trying to make this up – er, think this out – as I go along). Thus, the shaven head is authoritarian and right-wing, long hair liberal and left-wing; short hair is Roman, long Celtic.

It was one of the saddest days of my life when I cut my near waist-length hair to satisfy The Man at job interviews and whatnot. Such a coward. But it was getting to the stage where you’d get laughed at by the mob for still having long hair. That was back in the early to mid 1980s, the most hellish era in human history.

Even now, if long hair for men came back, I wonder what I’d do. As an older gentleman, one could project the image of wizard or sage. Or, alas, nutter. I see some older guys who never sold out like I did back in the day, and who still bravely “fly their freak flag”, as we used to say.

But, particularly in rural areas, where many people come to carve out a lifestyle (boak!) for themselves, you get the impression they live in a house made of oatmeal and knit their own shoes.

Oddly enough, for many years I’ve told myself that I’ll grow my hair again before I die. It speaks of freedom and elves, both of which are dear to me.

But we live in a time of orcs. A fashion magazine says this week that people should be allowed to wear shorts in the office now. It’s disgraceful. Wearing shorts is an abuse of freedom. You never see an elf wearing shorts.

Back when long hair was in, flared trousers were also worn. Objectively speaking, these are the best looking habiliment for the human leg. But, oddly enough, when they were all the rage, I wore straight-legged, black Wrangler cords, paired with desert boots.

Recently, I ordered the same combination. Unarguably, it’s a classic “cowboy” look, scientifically proven to be right sexy. So, I’ve made a start in going retro. Hair is next, if I can pluck up the courage, of which I cannot boast an abundance.

A gin and chronic

IT says here that, in joint place with Brighton, Liverpool has the most pubs in Britonia.

I wonder if they’ve changed since I was last there around 20 years ago. After another job professionally muddled through, the photographer and I headed out of our hotel to the nearest pub. Fair to say it was basic.

At the time, I was off whisky (as I am again), because it was wrecking my stomach, so I asked for a gin and tonic. The barkeep nearly had a fit of the vapours. However, eventually, he came back with the gin, consisting of a minuscule gob’s worth in a half-pint glass.

A minute later, he started taking the glass away, assuming it was already empty, when I hadn’t even touched it yet.

It reminds me of a time when, unable to get into a footer game, a mate and I repaired to a nearby Leith pub, which was full of what I believe are called casuals.

Certainly, the place was dominated by sullen oafs whose disposition was less than Christmassy. Clearly, we didn’t belong, a situation not helped when my copy of The Collected Poems of A.E. Housman fell out of my pocket. I got the impression they were hardcore Wordsworth fans.

To make matters worse, suffering with a shocking hangover, I ordered a soft drink – again, a G&T – and you could have cut the atmosphere with a knife. My mate said it was one of the most embarrassing and threatening moments of his life. We drank up fast.

Meanwhile, I can report exclusively that, at the time of going to press, apart from the odd beer or glass of wine, I’ve been teetotal for three days, leading to weight gain, sleeplessness, depression, nervousness and headaches. I’ll be fine. Just leave me to die in peace, will you?

Putting me off the scent

WE live in a world of soaps and lotions. Let you into a wee secret: I haven’t washed my hair for years. It’s not greasy, not particularly dry, and I’ve no dandruff.

True, I shower every day, but I don’t massage colourful gunk into ma heid. I do use shower cream for my body, though I may reconsider that too, after a new book says that so doing stops wee mites on our skin from doing their job of keeping us clean.

Indeed, James Hamblin, author of Clean: The New Science of Skin, says lathering and scrubbing our skin are “not hygiene practices”.

Controversially, I’ve never been one for deodorants. I did experiment with supposedly masculine scents once but never got to grips with them.

You can’t smell them yourself – so, what’s the ruddy point? – but everyone else can. Unable to smell anything, I sloshed on most of the bottle before a pretty tough physical class, the nature of which I cannot disclose here – no, madam, it wasn’t pilates – and, because the assembled louts thought it aftershave, they blamed a clean-shaven bloke nearby.

As ever, cowardice prevented me from speaking up.

Mite isn’t right

I WAS surprised to read above that mites on our skin perform a valuable function.

Regular readers and other hooligans know that I deplore all insects and mites for their lack of manners and disgraceful behaviour generally.

More typical of the breed is the finding by molecular biologists at North Carolina State University that millions of mites are having sex on our heads all the time. Unbelievable.

There was, however, good news: “They don’t have an anus, so they’re not pooping on you.” Whoop-de-doo: no poo.

And the bad news: “The idea’s been put out that [when they die] they explode.” Outrageous.

Among larger monsters, meanwhile, an invasion of killer mosquitoes is expected after the recent hot weather. Already, beasts carrying the Zika virus have been spotted in Sussex and Kent.

Here in Scotia, meanwhile, despite lathering on lotions and potions (see the lies written above), my left arm bears a sign saying “refectory” and my right “executive restaurant” for the benefit of midges.

I’m not a violent man but I’d like to punch every one of them in the face. Ruddy mites. If you’re not getting bitten, you’re getting shagged on.

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