I want to bleach my hair but I am simply too scared of it falling out - Alexander Brown

For the past few years I have been gripped by a recurring idea I cannot shake no matter how hard I try.

I have been pondering radical change, making a decision that would fundamentally alter who I am, and how people react to me.

Now I should stress now this is not some panic over my career or sense of self, or even the realisation that life is hard and some of my goals for it may elude me.

It is in fact so much worse than that, and something I’m almost scared to bring up due to the possible backlash against the idea.

Process of a guy having his hair bleached at hairdresser.

You see, reader, I’m thinking about bleaching my hair, but the problem is I’m a big coward who loves his hair.

I have a floppy quiff that hides a forehead that can only be described as considerable, yet for many years, this look has worked for me.

Swept or all over the place, I’ve managed to cultivate a straight-out-of bed messy mane that somehow looks like I’ve done something to it.

That’s not to say it looks good, but I rather like it, and my whole personality is built on being slightly posh with animated hands and floppy hair.

And for a recovering emo, it’s been a journey to get here, and like my old flatmate who only ever orders lasagna, why mess with what works.

Then there’s the matter that it’s a little Aryan (did I mention I work out) and frankly it wouldn't so much annoy my ancestors as cause them to directly run away from me.

But while wondering if the grass is greener, I have to be aware that that grass can all fall out with a bad dye job.

I’d be like Samson, if instead of having super strength he looked like Morrissey without all the horrible views.

And while there are few things I am scared of, such as how deep the sea is or TikTok, but baldness is absolutely at the top of the list.

I’d love to tell you this is a new anxiety, but frankly it’s been there since a lad called Nick made fun of my forehead in year six.

I took the dig in my stride by thinking about it often, filming my forehead sporadically to see if it was getting bigger then committing the incident to page in a newspaper column.

And it's not just me, I don’t know when it happened, but at some point hair loss became the bulk of what my male friends would want to talk about.

Football group chats turned from the action on the pitch to the quality of transplants upon it, and complimenting my friends haircuts now leads to nervous glances and being asked if it still looks the same.

Now I should add for the more follicly challenged there is nothing wrong with being bald, but much like flares or bungee jumping, I don’t need to try it to know it’s not for me.

I’ve been thinking about mixing up my look which could be fun for summer, or require a fundamental personality change.

As I get older, I can only hope it’s just my anxiety over it that thins.