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.

A coupé, a car that puts style way above substance, is perfect. Not that long ago there were many from which to choose. Volkswagen did the Corrado, Nissan the 200SX and Honda the Prelude. And there was the wonderful Fiat Coupé, a raft of cheap Porsches and the 6-series BMW. But one by one they all died away. Killed off as people began to realise they were paying more for what was basically a saloon car in a funny hat.

Now, though, they’re coming back. Joining the ancient Alfa GTV, the Toyota Celica — which is very good incidentally — and the Hyundai Coupé — which is even better — will be the Chrysler Crossfire (a Mercedes SLK in a fairly pretty shell), and the Nissan 350Z, which is better looking but a bit of a pig to drive. It’s just so wearing. Best of all, though, is the new Mazda RX-8, partly because of its rear doors, which open backwards to create a hole in the side of the car as big as the hole in the back of my head, and partly because it is so much fun talking about its Wankel rotary engine.

You’ve no need to explain how this works, because after you’ve said the name people are usually too busy laughing to be listening.

In essence, though, you get a sort of triangular shaped “piston” which spins round in a vaguely circular cylinder. The upside is uncanny smoothness — a buzzer sounds when you’re up past 9000rpm to warn you that a gearchange might be in order — but the downsides have always been thirst and unreliability.

The problem is that the tips of the triangular “piston” spinning round in the cylinder 9,000 times a minute have to be as tough as diamonds, but obviously not as expensive. I have no idea what Mazda has used — the residue of a Weetabix that’s been left in a cereal bowl for a week, probably. That’s the toughest substance I’ve ever encountered.

Whatever, Mazda says it has addressed all the problems in its new car, and that’s good, because the upsides are better than ever. It may only be a 1.3 litre engine (in normal engine terms) but the power it delivers is astonishing: 231bhp. And it just gets better and better as the revs begin the climb. Get past 7000rpm and it’s like you’ve pressed a hyperspace button.

It handles, too. Unlike most coupés this one sends its power to the proper end of the car —— the back. So the front does the steering, the rear does the driving and you sit in the middle wondering why all cars don’t feel this way; so balanced, so right and omigod I’ve just gone past 7000rpm again and it’s all gone blurry.

As a practical proposition: well, it’s not a people carrier but you do get a decent boot and two smallish seats in the back. And with those doors even the fattest children in the world can get in.

The best bit of this car, though, is the price: £22,000 is remarkable value for money, especially as my car had an interior that was not only nicely trimmed but also equipped like the innards of Cheyenne Mountain.

This is a very good car with an exceptional engine. But the whole point of a coupé is to bring a bit of style to your humdrum hairdo with its big hole at the back. It has to be a toupee with tyres, a weave with windscreen wipers, a syrup that can go sideways.

And on that front the RX8 is a bit questionable. It’s as though they had a styling suggestion box at the factory and every single idea was incorporated. It’s not ugly, and it’s certainly not plain. But it is messy.

There is, however, an upside to this. People will be so busy examining the curved front, the striking back and the endless detailing, to notice the driver’s a poof.

VITAL STATISTICS

Model: Mazda RX-8
Engine type: Rotary (two rotors), 1308cc
Power: 231bhp @ 8200rpm
Torque: 155 lb ft @ 5500rpm
Transmission: Six-speed manual
Suspension: (front) independent double wishbones, anti-roll bar (rear) independent multi-link, anti-roll bar
Tyres: 225/45 R18
Fuel: 24.8mpg (combined)
Top speed: 146mph
Acceleration: 0 to 62mph: 6.4sec
Price: £22,000
Verdict: Exceptional engine, remarkable value for money and ideal for the follically challenged
Rating:

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