a British Don Corleone, and he doesn’t even need to put grapes in his cheeks either. Sorry, Marlon.
You’ve got Vin Diesel, who is in those Fast & Furious films, and probably lots of other films with explosions in them, but I’ve never actually seen young Vincent in anything, so I’m not the one to ask. But anyway – him.
Bruce Willis.
And Demi Moore too, come to think of it (G.I. Jane).
The Rock. Who isn’t actually a real rock. Although real rocks don’t tend to have hair either, so he is aptly named.
Gail Porter.
Me.
Dara O’Briaiaian.
Ian Wright Wright Wright.
And Homer Simpson (virtually).
There will be more. Go and look on Wikipedia. But don’t forget to come back and read the rest of this book. I tend to get trapped in a Wiki hole when I go there. I was reading about a disaster in a colliery for an hour yesterday.
Anyway, back when I was lickle, there were FOUR BALD PEOPLE.
Kojak, the TV detective. I’ve never seen the show. I was too young to watch it. But I know he was bald and he had a lollipop. People used to call me Kojak all the time and say ‘Who loves ya, baby?’
Yul Brynner from The King and I.
The bald guy in The Benny Hill Show (whose head Benny used to pat and who was the reason for people constantly patting mine).
And Duncan Goodhew, who was a swimmer.
You’d see Duncan on telly all the time. If he wasn’t actually competing in an event, he was being interviewed on Saturday Superstore, or appearing in an advert, or sticking his head through a hole on Game for a Laugh while a blindfolded contestant felt it and had to identify what it was, with hilarious consequences.
Duncan Goodhew was wonderful. And, encouraged by my parents, I wrote him a letter and sent a photo of my little bald self.
It wasn’t long before a handwritten reply from Duncan himself arrived on the doormat. ‘Hi Matt! You look great in your photo!’ he told me. Also in the envelope were some badges. My favourite was a bright blue one, with a drawing of Duncan’s grinning face and the caption ‘Bald Is Beautiful’. I wore it every day.
Whenever my friend Duncan was on TV, someone would ask him how he lost his hair. He had been climbing a tree, he said, and fell out of it. The shock had made his hair fall out. I used to joke that it was my head he landed on, and that’s how I’d lost mine.
Duncan would talk about how he believed not having hair actually helped him when competing, because it meant he had less resistance in the water.
Duncan was a winner.
I’ve never met you, but I love you, Duncan Goodhew. You taught me that being bald was something you could actually use to your advantage. Thank you.
Being bald has helped me in my career. Would I have had my big break as a baby in Shooting Stars if I had had a full head of hair? My baldness has made me distinctive, yet also allowed me to transform myself. Stick a wig on and I’m someone else. Swap the wig and I’m now another person. Perfect.
My childhood was tough, yes. No one wants to feel eternally self-conscious, constantly stared at, teased, mocked and bullied. But also it’s important to get things into perspective.
When I was seven it was announced that a new ‘handicapped’ boy called Michael would be joining our class. Miss Robbins told me that I was to look after him.
Michael had – has – cerebral palsy. Tottering in with a winning smile on his first day, none of us found it easy to understand what he was saying. But in time, we learned his patterns and rhythms, knew to wait patiently because it took him longer to speak.
Michael was smart, funny, sweet and never complained about anything. He found writing a challenge so he did his work on a special computer. Michael was a marvel.
Maybe a generation or two earlier he would have gone to a special school, or not even gone to school at all, but I’m so glad he came to ours.
The truth is, it put things into perspective. Having no hair was unfortunate, but spending time with someone who had to face significantly greater challenges showed me that if nothing stopped him living his life to the full, why should my situation set me back?
I should point out that, when we were seventeen, Michael took me out for a spin in his specially adapted shiny red car. I’ve failed my test twice and still can’t drive.
Meanwhile my ever-growing cap collection was coming in useful. My oldest friend Jeremy can scarcely recount the number of times he got into trouble at school for something we both did, while I bowed my head, smirk hidden beneath the huge brim of my cap. Before long, tears of laughter would be rolling down my face. If you were taller than me, you’d never know.
My favourite piece of headwear was different from the others, a small-peaked sailor’s hat that my grandmother had bought for me. I fell in love with it after watching Ghostbusters in the cinema (twice in one week) as it resembled the one worn by the giant Stay Puft Marshmallow Man. I wore it for months and months, until it became filthy. Then one day, spurred on by my brother, I wrote ‘STAY PUFT’ on the front in thick black marker pen, which was great until it rained and the hat was ruined.
Though we would fight like cat and dog at home, my brother Howard was the first to stand up for me if anyone gave me any aggravation. Sure, he’d badger me mercilessly about my steadily increasing weight, but he never ever teased me about having no hair.
Quite the opposite. He loved my bald head so much that one day, as he sat in the back of the car, with me in front of him, and our mum outside chatting to a friend, Howard offered to draw a Pac-Man on my head. I thought it a terrific idea. First, I would have a Pac-Man on my head and who didn’t like Pac-Man? And second, I knew he would get into trouble.
Howard whipped out one of the marker pens he habitually stole from school (for graffiti purposes) and started to draw. On Mum’s return I gave a beautiful performance.
‘Waaaah! Look what he’s done now!’
Mum was furious with him. I was delighted. What I hadn’t bargained for was that the Pac-Man wouldn’t come off. Howard was instructed to scrub until my head was clean, but the traces were still visible three weeks later.
Joking around with my brother was one thing, but my baldness could also attract a more mean-spirited attention. Around the age of twelve or thirteen, I was deemed old enough to go out with a friend, rather than with a parent, so Jeremy and I would often get the bus to Copthall swimming pool or Harrow Leisure Centre.
I remember one time we were upstairs on a double-decker when we were joined by a couple of rough boys who seemed younger than us and were keen to stamp their authority. Without provocation, they pushed us around and took great pleasure in repeatedly slapping my head. I was petrified. This wasn’t the usual teasing – there was something ungovernable about them. I doubt they even went to school.
I encountered them a few times in my youth. Once, one
