Lighten Up: Brushing off Dáithí's hairdo, until Christmas

The same fellow, I might add, has been as bald as a duck egg for years.

But this fact alone didn't stop him from voicing his opinion on my head.

Indeed, his baldness seemed to give him the air of someone with authority to speak on the matter.

He had an air, but no hair.

"If I was young again," he recalled, as he rubbed his own barren patch "I'd do all I could to hold onto my hair."

"The ladies love a good head of hair," he said, laughing to himself. And I laughed too, for I felt t'would be better than crying.

I am well aware that I am going bald. The warning lights have been on for years.

Like a turkey fattening for Christmas, I realise what's ahead of me.

I don't fancy the idea of going bald. But just like I don't fancy the idea of going broke, I feel both are inevitable.

Anyhow, he went on to explain that Dáithí had a reseeding job done back in Tralee, and now, if you look at him on the telly, he looks 20 years younger.

"You'd think he was 25," says he. "He has the hair of Mick Jagger.

"The man will be presenting 'Top of the Pops' within the year," he predicted.

And I must confess, before I went home, I did catch a glimpse of myself in a puddle, and sure enough, there did seem to be a lack of hair where once there was plenty.

Naturally, as a farmer, I wear a cap while performing my duty on the land, but when entering a licensed premises or greeting the more well-to-do's, I have a terrible habit of removing my hat out of respect and fumbling with it in my hands.

'Tis a bad habit for sure, for then my head is revealed in all its glory, or lack of glory, as the case may be.

Anyhow, I have made enquiries as to how much a hairdo like Dáithí's would cost, and I found out that a fresh new look, a good reseeding job, could end up costing me an arm and a leg.

Funds I sadly lack these days, owing to the decline in demand for the plain bullock at the mart.

The bullock trade is to blame for all my problems up above.

So unable to string together the necessary sum for a proper reroofing job, in desperation, I have sent a letter to Santa Claus hoping that he might gallop to my rescue.

The big guy, being a man well-covered in the hair department, should know only full well how fortunate he is.

And I am hoping that when he reads the sob story I have penned, that he will look kindly on me and on my head.

Or more importantly again, I'm hoping he will forward me the required sum on Christmas morning for my trip to the follicle seamstress of Tralee.

And then when the grass returns to our fields in the spring of 24, I might have a hairdo to match the best plot on the farm.