I used to dread going to the hairdresser, chiefly because the stylist always touched my hair as if it was an envelope marked 'anthrax', rolled their eyes when I asked for 'more blonde' and could barely conceal their laughter when I produced pictures torn from magazines of Kate Bosworth (fair enough).
What's in a mane? It's been said that blondes have more fun; that redheads are fiery and feisty (loathsome word though that is, applicable only to women who have opinions); that brunettes are serious and hardworking; that women with black hair are untameable and carefree (given the rarity and ethnic profile of the black-haired woman, that's a stereotype that merits a longer discussion on race).
There is a time in every man's life when the tide goes out on his luxuriant locks. For some, this is in their early twenties, barely enough time for life experience involving hair. In my case, it was threatened but never came into effect, until my forties giving suitable time for my hair to be dyed, to have loved ones run their fingers through it and for my children to arrange it in a "David Beckham in a wind tunnel" formation.