"Old age ain’t for wimps.” So said the famously sour-tongued actress Bette Davis. And as if to prove the chilly truth of her dictum, the main concern for many people nowadays is trying to hold back the ageing process as best we can. And it’s no longer just the female of the species who wants to look as young as possible. Men, too, are spending more on their looks than ever before.
The explosion in the popularity of male grooming can be traced back to the 1960s. Back then, when I was a kid, my Dad’s notion of looking presentable extended to nothing more that running a greasy comb through hair already thick with months of Brylcreem. But some time in the 1970s things started to change.
First came after shave: industrial-strength concoctions packaged in garish bottles and advertised on TV by racing drivers and media celebrities. No matter that the products were sufficiently potent to eat through the armour of a tank, let alone your shirt collar.
Then came men’s moisturiser. And thus year by year, product by product, the men’s grooming industry grew, until now it accounts for nearly £600 million (Dh3.34bn) a year in the UK alone. And where once you could get a haircut for little more than a packet of sweets, now at some of the classier salons you can pay upwards of £65 (Dh365) a pop.
In recent years I, too, have succumbed to each successive trend. But there was one Rubicon even I was not prepared to cross. I’d always vowed I’d never join that army of middle-aged Englishmen who try to turn back the march of time by artificially colouring their hair.
You know the sort – those grizzled individuals, usually aged between 50 and 60 – who suddenly sprout suspiciously vibrant locks of deepest black.
Well, I may have yielded to moisturiser and a fancy coiffeur, but as regards my hair colour, I was committed to letting nature take its course.
But then last week I accompanied my wife to her swanky central London unisex salon where she has her own hair done once a month.
I never intended to enter the premises, but there was a parking space right outside the salon, and it was raining, and they were offering free cappuccinos. Before I knew it I was sitting in a padded chair having a wash and cut from a young Venezuelan called Santiago.
As I luxuriated in the unaccustomed opulence, he asked me if I’d ever thought of having a colour wash through my hair. It would be simple and seamless he assured me, just a little subtle highlighting round the temples to help soften the white. He claimed I’d look 10 years younger. Finally, he mentioned the one word – discount – that men everywhere always find irresistible. An hour later and £50 (Dh278) lighter, I emerged with my old sandy locks restored to their youthful hue.
And in truth, it has worked very well. Yet therein is the trouble. To anyone who knows my 58-year-old self, my new look now resembles something out of a freak show.
Far from the gushing looks from female admirers that I’d hoped for, the general reaction has been one of raucous laughter. “What on earth have you done?” they shriek before falling about in fits of giggles.
The moral is obvious. Don’t try to stop the ageing process, which is why I’m currently confined to my house, washing my hair furiously with shampoo and waiting for my old self to re-emerge.
And next time I’m tempted to meddle with nature, I’ll think again.
As I admitted to my wife only last night: “I’ve just got to get used to being old. My arms are saggy, I’ve got a paunch, varicose veins and my face looks like a road map. Never mind. Still, there must be something that’s good about me.”
She scrutinised me for a moment and said: “Well your eyesight seems fine.” Ms Davis herself couldn’t have done better.
Michael Simkins is an actor and writer in London
On Twitter: @michael_simkins
