Don’t be fooled by that big macho frontage. Men - and I mean all men - are esentially compelled by fear.

One such fear is that on which the criminal justice system is based. And, like most fears, it’s not entirely rational.

I’m talking of course about the myth that any infraction of the law can and very well might result in long term incarceration in a grey-walled, spartan prison cell. Then, once ensconced in this sorry hell-hole, you’ll be immediately two-ed up with a large, unfeeling beast who goes by the name of Big Bubba and personally organises an extreme, violating, 'welcome to chokey' party that you’ll never forget.

Relax. It won’t happen. I’ve been to jail and it didn’t.

The point is, it might happen. It’s a possibility. A possibility which keeps most people - men - on the straight and narrow, most of the time.

The other big manly fear - not quite as big and not as physically painful, though arguably more emotionally distressing - is baldness. Men are terrified. 

Well, I’ve been there too.  I am there. And it’s not that bad. 

Obviously, I didn’t always think this way. 

I started to lose the wool a bit in my thirties, although at first it was only at the temples and I could pretend I wasn’t suffering from male pattern baldness as much as experiencing an overwhelming desire to channel my inner Count Dracula. Or, more prosaically, snooker legend Ray Reardon.

I tried at first to pretend the eagles wings look was racy and roguish but as my hairline started to morph into my scalp I admitted defeat and had it all shaved off. I’ve never looked back since. 

In fact, I’ve never looked back at the mirror since.

Going Brazilian has its advantages.  You save a fortune in combs for a start. Not to mention shampoos, conditioners and, naturally enough, haircuts. 

Having a shower is a breeze too and living on the beach as I used to, you can effortlessly hit the surf at any time without bothering about what seaweed, water and salt is doing to your carefully prepared coiffure. (The only problem in swimming as a slaphead occurs when you dive in and lose your trunks before emerging bum up. People think you’ve split your head.)

Of course, I was particularly lucky.  I have a nice shaped head - no lumps, bumps or imperfections.  I know this is true because a burlesque dancer in New York told me so and I think you’ll agree that any women who plies her trade in a slightly downmarket Broadway Club (Pumps Bar, if you’re interested) is just about the most reliable witness you’ll find anywhere.

But the thing is, and I’m not simply swallowing wholesale the testimony of Cindy, women don’t really seem to care. 

Baldness is only an issue - in the main - for men. For women, other factors came into play when choosing their partner: being financially solvent, essentially kind and generous, having a gsoh and not being a self-obsessed, crashing bore or a self-obsessed, crashing serial killer matters a whole lot more to most than an absence of head fuzz.

And, if my experience is anything to go by, some seem to quite like it.

This, of course, could be related to the reason some of us are lucky enough to go bald in the first place - a surfeit of testosterone. Baldness means you’re more of man, hormonally speaking. Got to love that.  

Except, by and large, we don’t love it.  Men, that is. We’re getting better but it’s still a bit of, well, a riddy. 

If male pattern baldness wasn’t a wee bit discomforting, we wouldn’t have the various lotions, potions, toupees and treatments designed to cover up, reduce or reverse the inevitable patter of hand slapping on bare head. 

What’s more, if we truly celebrated lack of hair we’d totally and finally renounce the homemade efforts of blokes who think the so-called Bobby Charlton is a good look; that deployment of the sweeper system whereby all surviving hair, including that of the underarm variety, is utilised to cover up any scalp deficiencies.

You don’t see the comb-over much anymore, which can only be a good thing, though for some strange reason it does still make the odd appearance in various parliaments, sported by politicians who, as in much else they do, don’t seem to realise they’re fooling no one.  (You’re bald, mate.  And what’s more, you’re talking sh**e).

It’s getting better, but we still have a long way to go. And even when we think we’re making progress, occasional off-the-cuff, uneducated comments remind we of the non-hirsute assemblage how prejudiced, blinkered and just plain fearful other men are of 'wavy' hair. (As in: waving goodbye to your head.)

We’ll call him Tony, since that’s his real name. In the pub the other night Tony told me, in a genuinely sympathetic tone of voice, how bad he felt for me because I was bald - a state of affairs  he’d heard was actually some sort of inherited illness.

Tony has loads of hair.  Long and flowing. It’s greying – well, grey actually - and get this: most of the time he wears it in a ponytail. A ponytail.  Now, that really isa riddy.

What’s more, Tony can’t find himself a girlfriend.