The six stages of a man getting a hair transplant

IS A man in your life gazing at Wayne Rooney and Rob Brydon with naked envy? Always on websites with a particular follicular bent? These are the stages to watch for: 

Aggressive combing

First comes mild subterfuge, as the remaining frontmost strands creep longer and longer and begin to be styled dramatically in patterns similar to weather reports of a hurricane. He’s growing it out, he’ll say, it’s no big deal, while carefully gauging wind speed to see if it’s safe to leave the office and hiding from rain as if he owes it money.

Big hat era

Whether a beanies, a baseball caps, or a dubious fedora that makes him look like a Bugsy Malone extra, no headwear is left untried in his attempt to convince himself that yeah, all he has to do is wear this for the rest of his life and nobody will know. Before long, gatherings of guys in their late 30s start to look like the Innocent smoothie fridge in winter.

Off-season trip to Turkey

A fortnight in Turkey, in October? Suspicious. You later find his girlfriend didn’t go? Even more so. It can only mean he’s taken the plunge for the low, low price of hoping the clinic meets minimal medical standards and allows him to make eye contact with his reflection again. Sees nobody on flying home. Posts no photos.

Pub avoidance

As the scars fade and the new hairs bed in, you’ll be able to tell because you won’t see him. Whether Friday pub, Saturday pub, watching football in the pub on Sunday or a cheeky Wednesday pub visit, he’ll let you down because he’s shunning society to scab and shed like an emo snake. The transplanted hair is taking root. Where did it come from? Best not to ask.

Soft launch

The presence of extra hair begins to be teased like a new partner or bougie doughnut, as strands start to poke out. Hats may even be removed when indoors. He’s sprouting like the cress head you grew at primary school, and he’s got the shit-eating grin to match. The payoff is here, and it’s spectacular.

Cock of the walk

His forehead is now an impenetrable shield wall of lustrous locks, which he shake like a show pony at every opportunity. The physical results are positive but his personality has taken a hit as he obsessively lords it over the baldies who were once his kin. Instagram pics multiply at an exponential rate. His Tinder bio removes ten years from his age, no actually 15.

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Of course house guest is a f**king imposition

A HOUSEGUEST who sweetly said she did not want to impose should have thought of that before arriving at a friend’s home for a whole weekend. 

Sophie Rodriguez surprised Charlotte Phelps by arriving on Friday evening, insisting she would not be a burden and asking why there was not any oat milk in the fridge.

Phelps said: “Has Soph realised that home invasion is actually a genre of horror film? And even in those they’re not expected to put out fresh towels for them?

“If she wasn’t here, I’d be in my pants watching Honeymoon Island, might have a wank if I’m feeling cheerful. Instead I’m lounging around a suspiciously clean flat with a scented candle burning as if that was my usual Saturday.

“Making a bed and making her endless drinks would be tolerable if not having to constantly reassure her that nothing delights me more than her presence. ‘No fuss at all!’ I say when she asks to use all my make-up. ‘Let me stack the dishwasher!’ I resentfully volunteer.

“Even when she’s gone I’ll have a bed to deflate, no prosecco left and a weekend spent being a servant. Male houseguests are loads better. You get pissed with them, they sleep on the sofa, they’re gone by 10am leaving Sky Sports News on.”

Rodriguez said: “Lovely to see Lottie and I could relax after seeing the state of the place, knowing she’d gone to no effort.”