This month, Her Majesty’s Government – sorry, HIS Majesty’s Government, I’m still getting used to that – will be providing me with my state pension. I will officially be an OAP, if is there is such a thing nowadays. 

I can’t quite believe it, but I confess that I am looking forward to receiving my just rewards for a lifetime of toil in public service. All those spreadsheets that I produced over the years will mean that I can now kick back with a couple of hobnobs and a cup of tea at any time of day, His Majesty providing the wherewithal. I won’t be relinquishing my job on the taxis just yet, but that’s only because I like doing it. I will however now be able to give it up if ever I wanted to, knowing that I won’t have to worry about where the next biscuit is coming from. 

Despite the negative press, there are many benefits to “getting on a bit.” A free bus pass. Not paying for prescriptions. Having the time to write pointless blogs. And not troubling hairdressers any more. 

Except, in the last case, I do. I still toddle off to Hair by Liz in Ryton every six weeks or so to try and get a George Clooney haircut. It’s not happened yet but I’m nothing if not over optimistic.

Sometime in my late twenties, before I attained a more fashionable hair colour. And clothes.

As a boy I was regularly marched off to an old fashioned barber shop, owned by a Mr Bonser who smelled of Brylcreem and wore a white coat with a comb permanently sticking out of his top pocket. He did a fairly decent job of keeping my barnet in the regulatory Highfield Junior School style, meaning that I went through my early years with a then very fashionable short back and sides. It was the 1960s so I didn’t really stand out in a crowd because of my hairstyle, simply because every other boy had the same look. (The eyepatch on my NHS specs did a very good job of singling me out in those days, but that’s a story for another day).  

The only time we deviated from the old SB&S came on the day when Mum colluded with Mr B and thought they might try a different look. I had my head shaved in what is now known as a Number One all over but in 1965 was referred to as a “Crew Cut.” 

A perfect hiding place for a crew cut

It suited me as well as impetigo (again, another story) and was never attempted again. It has been said that the difference between a good haircut and a bad one is three weeks. Well, I can report that those three weeks seemed more like three years. But eventually we went back to the original plan. 

I have never been particularly rebellious and I was a well behaved and decent teenager, as I believe most still are. But the one area where I wanted to do my own thing was in the hair department. I wanted to look like the Beatles, complete with moptop and a sharp suit. I thought I might have resembled John Lennon at one point, so I started to let it grow as soon as I could. I didn’t like having to go to the barber’s, which on reflection was probably because I was still psychologically scarred by the Crew Cut. So I let it grow, assuming I would wake up one morning in around three months time and girls would start screaming their adoration at me whenever I left the house in a calculated incidence of mistaken identity. 

Well, of course, not only did that not happen, but it got worse. My Dad compared me with Richard III. Not because I was an evil despot who murdered his young relatives, but simply because I now sported the old King’s hairstyle. At least, I assume that’s what he meant. But I persevered, channelling my inner Beatle and continuing to think that I looked irresistible. If only I’d listened to my Father. 

Not me. Richard III

Genetics has been kind to me and I have as much hair today as I had in the days of my outings to Bonser’s. It’s not thinning, and if I so desired I could grow it down to my shoulders. It did however have one trick up its sleeve, which stopped me from handing Brenda Blethyn a cup of tea. 

My hair, although plentiful, turned white my early thirties. Not grey; not silver. White. I landed a role as an extra in Vera, and my first job was to hand Brenda Blethyn a cup of tea while she stood at the incident board discussing a gruesome murder with her assistant. I was then directed to go and sit down. “This is it,” I thought. “Next stop Hollywood! I can compare haircuts with George Clooney!”

Alas, it was not to be. They re-filmed the scene with someone who had less, but crucially, darker hair than me. I was told that the top of my head looked like a distress flare on screen, so my Hollywood career is on hold until I can find a suitable dye. And to think I had auburn hair once. 

The stress of work starting to turn my hair white

And that wasn’t the first time that I’d suffered for my art. Around the time of my fiftieth birthday, I’d landed the part of Doctor Joseph Fenwick in a play called “An Experiment With an Air Pump” with the Wylam Amateur Dramatics Society. The play was based on a painting of the same name, and as the Doctor had long, wavy white hair, I set about growing my locks to try and resemble him as closely as possible.

Unfortunately, I ended up looking more like Camilla Parker-Bowles. 

Despite this, my two boys at the time thought it was cool to have a Stepdad who wasn’t afraid to look different and after the play was over, I made several attempts to persuade them that I should get it cut. They resisted those attempts, “No, it looks great,’ they would say before scurrying upstairs where I suspect they could snigger in private. As a consequence of my trying to conform with their wishes, I remained with that eccentric hairstyle for two or three years. 

Camilla Parker-Bowles. With a jar of marmalade. Don’t ask me why

And now, as I approach my dotage, my snowcap still gives no sign that it’s going anywhere. It’s a blessing, I know, but I just didn’t expect to still be spending a fortune on hair products at this time of life. 

Maybe I should get a Crew Cut.