PATTAYA, Thailand – Coffee taking and people watching are inexorably linked. Especially when frequenting any one of the plethora of establishments along Jomtien seafront. Always accompanied by my partner, we partake, as creatures of habit, this morning ritual. Both to be precise.
A recent sipping of coffee, complemented by a light breeze coming off the sea, found us sitting behind a pair of elderly gentlemen. One was half facing us, whilst the other sat at a slight angle, the back of his head more prominent than his face. This proved most fortuitous, since my observations were easily confirmed. He was wearing a wig, syrup of figs, toupee, call it what you like. He would occasionally scratch the back of head, whilst deep in conversation, causing the hairpiece to go up and down like a pedal bin. And if this was not enough free theatre, the gentle breeze would further assist to this performance. The hairpiece seemed at times to raise itself in levitation style, hovering just ever so slightly, then cushion land itself back in place. Or maybe at this point, I was now so mesmerised and succumbing to the throes of semi hallucination.
Whilst alopecia had completed its task here, it was clear it had found a new victim, his companion, and work was still in progress. He was, I could only imagine, in the throes of daily ‘fluffing up’ his thinning locks to fashion a just been ‘electrified style of quiff.’
So where do I personally stand in this fight to hold back the years? As guilty as sin, to start with. In my early thirties, I began a long affair with ‘Just For Men’. Not the living on legs type, but a hair dye that hid my ever-increasing grey roots. I considered a medium brown wholly suitable. However, I often failed to factor in the necessity to keep applying the messy solution to hide the invading greyness creeping through. Eventually, on sound advice, I simply resolved to let nature take its course. I now retain a full head of hair, albeit grey in every aspect. No more scrubbing of those shirt collars, seeped in sweat by induced hair dye stains. Nor the thank you note to friends for their hospitality over a lovely weekend, accompanied by a pair of fine Egyptian cotton pillowcases to replace the ones indelibly stained, due to my conceit.
I still spy gentlemen in these hot climes, aged but still holding a full head of hair, which is clearly dyed mason black. The excessive heat frequently causes unwanted streaks of black dye to gently flow down across their forehead.
Wigs are still worn in court by judges and barristers, but nowadays to much lesser an extent. Some older judges and barristers still choose to drag–up. These wigs, for judges known as the “full -bottomed wigs” are usually longer and more ornate than the traditional barrister wig. But are they really necessary? To my mind a load of frippery, but to those that wear them, I am convinced it is symbolic of the legal profession and wearing one is perceived as a symbol of respect for the court and law. The wearer stands out so differently to anyone else in court, especially the defendant. These big–wigs convey superiority.
So what in the dickens has my observed wig wearing fellow coffee drinker got in common with wig bearing barristers and judges? I do not for a moment suspect that he got a penchant for wearing a wig through having been obliged to do so in a profession that dictated such. But they do have something remotely attached. The legal profession wants to draw attention to themselves and stand out. The wig bearing commoner wishes to do the exact opposite. He wishes to ‘fit-in’ and not draw attention to himself. He really yearns to be the average Joe. However his vanity has accrued the absolute desired opposite. There lies his nemesis.
Quite some years ago, my partner surrendered to ongoing rampant alopecia and gallantly shaved off his remaining locks. A few years back, he took receipt of a small parcel, disappeared in to his bedroom and reappeared maybe fifteen minutes later. I looked up and found myself almost speechless, but with just enough puff to exclaim ‘What the hell are you doing wearing a dead cat on your head?’ Or maybe it was a stoat. I was beside myself with laughter and infectious enough, for him to succumb to fits of giggles. Meanwhile, the wig was designated to the dustbin.
My partner, after much coaxing from my good self, agreed to allow me to include a photo of himself, with and without the wig. I let the reader decide which is most becoming. Should a reader, bent on sheer bedevilment, give the thumbs up to the wig bearing photo, then all I can say is that both my partner and I are proud to laugh out aloud day in and day out, together and at each other.
