Where do you stand on hair? If you’ve got plenty of it, you probably couldn’t give two bald coots for that particular question as you sit there nonchalantly sweeping your hands through that dense, shimmering mane like someone posing and preening in those old Timotei shampoo adverts.
If you’re anything like the diarist, however, the slow, irreversible thinning in the crown area of the napper is cause for much mystified muttering and strained, contorted mirror-peering. I mean, hair grows in the most unlikely airts. You slice, clip and chop it off but back it comes, like a zombie that simply refuses to die.
But why can’t that tangled, abundant growth that sprouts in gay abandon under, say, the oxters not flourish on that increasingly balding bit of the bonce? Alas, it prefers, instead, to beat a hasty retreat from the scalp before deciding to regroup in the nose or the lugs.
In this world of follicly fickle fortunes, the diarist was intrigued to see that the neatly coiffured French footballer Olivier Giroud was this week named as the world’s most stylish footballer and won awards in the categories of best haircut and best beard.
Giroud took 40 per cent of the public vote in the haircut category and racked up 33 per cent of the votes in the beard section.
“He is becoming renowned all over the globe for his super trendy haircuts, chiselled good looks and his all-round style,” said a Nick Gibbens, a spokesperson for male grooming brand, The Bluebeards Revenge. Presumably that was Giroud he was talking about and not Dick Campbell?
*Celebrated seer Mystic Meg was called into action by a well kent red top this week to get to the bottom of the perceived curse of Celtic’s No 7 shirt.
Nadir Ciftci is one of many players who have tried and failed to fill the jersey vacated by the venerated Henrik Larsson.
With her numerology nous, soothsayer Meg informed the populace that the No 7 represents the thinker.
Given Ciftci’s dismal record in the Hoops, many thought he was a load of, ahem, No 2 ...
*Mystic Meg is just about the only person on the planet who has not offered advice to the new rookie Rangers boss Steven Gerrard.
Graeme Souness flung his tuppence worth into the pot with the comforting words, “ultimately, it’s your neck on the line and if you’re going to die, you have to die by making your own decisions.”
Deciding not to die would be a pretty good decision, though.
*In this acronym-driven world of OMGs and LOLs, the term GOAT gets bandied about in wild abundance to describe sporty folk deemed to be the Greatest Of All Time.
Lionel Messi’s status as football’s very own GOAT was bolstered recently when he posed for a series of photos with, well, some genuine goats.
“I am a big fan of animals, I grew up with them and they have taught me many things,” cooed Messi.
Funnily enough, those words probably echoed the sentiments of Brazilian great Garrincha who, according to footballing legend, lost his virginity to a goat as a teenager.
Greatest Of All Time? “The earth certainly didn’t move,” bleated the goat …
*On this June date back in 1874, the decorated Scottish weightlifter, Launceston Elliot, was born.
Elliot, whose family was very much part of the Scottish aristocracy, became Britain’s first Olympic champion and won gold in the one hand lift at the Athens Games of 1896.
The bold Launceston was an imposing, moustachioed hulk of a man who attracted the attentions of the ladies of the world with his “uncommon type of beauty” and would go on to become the star act of a touring, circus-style troupe.
This description bears an uncanny resemblance to the posse of Scottish football writers covering Scotland in Peru and Mexico ...
*PGA Tour winner and physics graduate Bryson DeChambeau has always liked the appliance of science.
He would, for instance, soak his balls in Epsom salts to find which ones were out of balance.
At last week’s Memorial, he gasted the flabber of the scribes with the phrase, “it’s to do with anatomical limits of your body and how you can best utilise them for your proprioception.” No wonder he needs Epsom salts.
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