When women crest the brow of middle age and start on the high-speed, unstoppable plunge to an osteoporotic, alopecia-ravaged death, there are many ways to pretend that it isn’t happening. Breasts, ravaged by gravity and babies, can be re-upholstered. Tummies distorted by pregnancy can be vacuumed away. And shops such as SpaceNK and Boots sell exotic creams that soothe wrinkles and cellulite.

I have watched Joan Collins walk into a restaurant and noted how all the women stare in open-mouthed wonderment. Here she is, aged 70, and she doesn’t look a day over 58. You certainly wouldn’t give up your seat on a bus were she to step on board with some heavy bags.

Now, compare and contrast the fortunes of Ms Collins with the plight of Barry Manilow. We hear he’s had plastic surgery and what do we think? Poof. Mickey Rourke is said to have had Botox put in his face. Poof. Jay Kay wins a prize for most stylish man. Poof. AA Gill. Poof. Paul Smith. Poof.

Men who wear “product” in their hair, whatever the hell that is. Poofs. Men who put on suncream in England. Poofs. Men who have combs or hairdryers. Poofs. Men who wash their cars. Poofs. Men in sandals. Poofs. Men who go to the dentist when they don’t have toothache. Poofs. Men who take vitamin tablets. Raving poofs. And backs to the wall everyone: there’s a jogger in the room.

Any attempt, whatsoever, to delay the visible signs of old age is met with a torrent of barracking and cruel jibes. And rightly so.

I wear clothes so that people cannot see my genitals. I have a stomach like a Space Hopper because I like eating food. My teeth are yellow because I drink 100 cups of coffee a day. My hair is cut with scissors. My bathroom scales are broken. I haven’t combed my hair since I was 12 and I last washed a car in 1979.

I’d like, therefore, to say that I’m all man, but in my heart of hearts I know this to be untrue. Because a huge hole has appeared in the back of my hair and it’s driving me insane with worry.

Baldness is bad enough when it appears from the front, but when it starts at the back, creating a big pink crater, it looks stupid. And what makes it worse is that the mirror lies. It tells you that you still have a full rug. It tells you that all is well. Your hole is as invisible as the hole in the ozone layer, but you know it’s there all right, like a huge crop circle, amusing people who sit behind you in cinemas.

Last weekend a girl at a party tried to reassure me, saying that bald men smell nicer than those with a full crop. To demonstrate the point she sniffed the shiny pate of Shaun Woodward, who happened to be nearby, and declared the aroma to be “lovely”. Whereas what’s left of my curly top, she said, was “horrid”. So much for the morning pine goodness of my jojoba tree shampoo.

I wasn’t fooled though. I know that baldness has to be masked. But how? I could go down the Dylan Jones route and give myself a number one. But then Dylan is editor of GQ magazine, and as such must be a poof.

Nothing works. Have a hair transplant and you end up with something that looks like a Scottish forest on your head. Go for a scrape-over and you’re marooned in your house every time there’s a light breeze. And as for the wig? Forget it. Elton John has all the money in the world and still looks like he has a Huguenot carpet tile on his bonce.

If men were women, someone from Alberto Balsam would have thought of a cure for this terrible affliction. But we’re not. So they haven’t. I have, though. Simply hide your barnet under a car.

Plainly, if you’re the sort of person who worries about hair loss there is a trace of vanity, a hint of poofery in your make-up, so it needs to be something with a bit of panache and pizzazz. Though, obviously, it can’t be a convertible.