My wife cuts my hair. I always do what she says

I still cherish the idea of growing my hair really long, and occasionally give it a go, even though I know it never ends well. Left unsupervised, it turns into Ian Botham, circa 1981. Not a full-blown mullet, but still uncomfortably close to survivalist militiaman from Idaho.

If I tie it up in a high band, it goes all Legolas. If I opt for a low-slung band, it’s Russell Crowe. Not the ripped Russell Crowe of Gladiator , but the paunchy Russell Crowe of Master and Commander , made three years later, three years Russell clearly spent eating constantly.

It’s the same with the beard. I kid myself I can grow one all lush and luxuriant and supermanly, like Jason Momoa. Or perhaps cropped and grizzled and somehow full of wisdom, like Idris Elba.

But after six weeks it’s just wiry, curly, entirely white, absurd, having turned into what my wife calls, with her customary flair for devastating, verging on cruel, descriptive accuracy, “a Brillo pad”..