Behold, Esau my brother is a hairy man, and I am a smooth man Jacob, Genesis 27:11 JACOB might have been follicly challenged but he sure wasn't stupid. He designed what was probably the world's first hairpiece, and his fake fuzz fooled his blind father into bestowing on him his hirsute brother's blessing. Still, he might have been blessed, but it couldn't buy him hair. From the stone age to the space age, lush locks have been associated with youth, vigour, success and attractiveness, while baldness has been the province of the geek, the bad and the ugly. Or so the myriad ads which jostle in the pages of newspapers and magazines would have us believe: offering all manner of lotions, potions, pills, weaves, implants, transplants, plugs and rugs. You know the ones.
The mugshot of the downcast, miserable chrome dome nestles next to images of the miraculous transformation - a Samson in reverse. See Mr Hairy play tennis! See Mr Hairy swim! See Mr Hairy clink champagne glasses with a glamorous, adoring babe! The message is relentless, the equation unequivocal: Give me a head with hair, long beautiful hair. Shining, flaxen, waxen.
Insecurity about male pattern baldness has spawned a multi-billion dollar industry which runs the gamut from out-and-out charlatans to multi-national drug companies. Which is hardly surprising, given that a recent America Online Web survey found that 25 per cent of balding men said they would swap five years of their life for a full head of hair. And let's face it, guys. Given the choice, who would want to be bald? The panic that sets in when a young man starts losing his hair is considerable. You've finally lost those zits, got a decent job, brushed up on your chat-up lines. Hello, ladies! The only problem is your new-found confidence starts disappearing down the drain as fast as the great clumps of hair dropping out of your head.
I can still remember the naked terror which seized me when, being made up for a high-school play, I was told I had a receding hairline. For weeks I frantically frisked my brush for evidence of shedding plumage and took to measuring the distance from brow to hairline for proof of the impending recession. Fortunately, it was a false alarm. I have always had a high forehead (a sign of great intelligence, of course) and 14 years later, my thatch remains, for the most part, intact - usually.
Male pattern baldness is genetic. And contrary to the persistent myth that you should check out your maternal grandfather's barnet for a glimpse of your tonsorial fate, the gene can be handed down from either, or both, parents. Dermatologists say it is also a myth that bald men are more virile, sadly for cue-balls everywhere.
Some choose to accept their baldness with equanimity. Some turn it into an asset (although it helps if you are as dashingly handsome as, say, Sean Connery, Michael Jordan or Yul Brynner). Some make it their trademark, like Templeton guru Mark Mobius, who obviously invested more in emerging markets than preserving follicles. Some compensate with humour: 'God made very few perfect heads, the rest He covered with hair. Yuk yuk yuk.' Some opt for that great look, the comb-over, where a few lovingly nurtured strands are arranged about the pate in a hieroglyph of hairy hypocrisy. But for those determined to fight to the last failing follicle, the choices have never been greater - or more confusing.