For those of you old enough, you will remember this as the title of a song by Crosby Stills, Nash and Young from 1970 on the Déjà Vu album; one of my all time favourite tracks.

Hair for me has been an awkward bothersome subject; I guess I am blessed that I still find it awkward at my age.  I was born the son of a military man, in the 1950’s growing up in the early-mid 1960’s where short hair was the norm.  I was a few years too young and didn’t do Uni so I missed the opportunity to emulate a Hippie: if I had grown the hair, I was mentally too immature to understand or promote their culture adequately.

So boarding school, grandparents and parents ensured my hair was short, very short: the well known short back and sides.  When I reached my majority I had one year of liberty to grow my hair and then I joined the Bank of England in the City of London.  So again my hair shrunk.

For the next 40 years, my hair, possibly longer than employees would like, was a length dictated by my laziness.  I always thought I was too busy to get a haircut. Hence, I commenced my path of exotic holiday haircuts; the most memorable being the reverse Mohican in Zanzibar, the cut throat razor in deepest Southern Egypt, many others from Thailand, Vietnam etc until I felt so comfortable that I visited the Turkish barbers in Germany.  The latter were cheap, always available (no appointment necessary) and I always believed my hair would grow back.

So followers on FB would have seen some haircuts modelled on Millwall Football Supporters, Jason Statham or for those not following these genres, very, very short.

These days, I have fallen out, even more with the personal planning saga.  My girlfriend is a particular fan of this and became a little exasperated, in our earliest days, of me trying to plan, pin her her down a week in advance.  So now I don’t book hair appointments, or I forget to book them, an my hair grows.

My partner, once an abject dissident of short hair is starting to comment that I need a haircut.  This is difficult for me.  My good friend and barber, Yasr, is bound to ask me, “How would you like it cut?”.  Honestly, I have no clue!  Having swung from Skinhead to Scruffy, hairy git, I don’t know where the line should be drawn.

My darling daughter also told me it was time for a haircut and for God’s sake don’t grow a pony tail!!  I have been thinking, never had a proper pony tail.  It will be hot and uncomfortable in this climate, need some housekeeping etc, etc..

BUT, my hair is an exhaustible resource, I have a window of opportunity and if, I keep up my indecisiveness, I have a chance to grow something long.  How long, I don’t know.  Will it look good?  Probably not as it is getting thinner and I have resorted to Conditioner.

I don’t wish to disregard the wishes and hints of my loved ones but I was far too conservative and law abiding as a youth.  I was always a bit lost, no independent original thought and a bit of a sheep.   So perhaps now, I just carry on forgetting to make a hairdressing appointment until I feel I look stupid.

Then if anyone wants some manky, knotted, grey hair as hair extensions, it will be free.  But I still won’t know what to answer to Yasr!