Smurfs, my hat and the cravat

I once met Jean Claude van Damme. He was in South Africa to promote a new movie, and I was on the PR crew to publicise it. He was an impressively short man. Smurf-like. But with biceps. And not blue.

In any event, during one of the interviews he gave, he said something which stuck with me ever since. He was asked about how and why he keeps so defined, muscular and fit. He spoke, “Some people invest in cars, in houses or art. I just choose to invest in my body.”

Clever man. I invest in my body, but in a completely different way. But of course one man’s investment is another man’s squander.

A few nights ago, I was at a club where some young thing began dancing and gyrating in front of me with his T-shirt off. Nipples like bullets, abs like tire tracks, pecs like small climbable hills and biceps like peaches (Australian ones, not French).

It was an impressive sight to behold. I tried to communicate this to the said young thing, but only managed to slur something and then pass out. The floor was impressively soft, but in a very hard kind of way.

And it was while I was comfortably lying on the dance floor that I began to reflect on the issue of one’s body and how you can take care of it.

I am very impressed and respect these men and women of muscle. It looks attractive, and the amount of time and discipline that it takes to get and stay that way is surely quite noteworthy.

Could I do it – get it - too?

I don’t know. I think I may just lack the discipline gene. Anything that requires repetition, a bit of effort and discipline is somewhat lost on me. Mind you, that’s not completely true. The only thing that I do with discipline is not doing anything that requires discipline at all.

Which brings me to the subject of hair. I am victim to what they call ‘male pattern baldness’. This of course implies that there is some shape or design to the actual baldness. Which is complete and utter bollocks, if you don’t mind my saying.

Male pattern baldness has no pattern at all. If anything, it is a haberdashery of disorganised follicles that cannot grasp simple concepts, like growing in a straight and consistent line.

And so, I’m giving my hair one last chance. It’s swansong. To shine, to grow. Because it’s worth it. I’m wearing a hat in this interim period to cover my shame. Which has opened a whole new world of strange behaviour from friends and onlookers.

What is it about a hat that makes other people want to take it off when they see you? If you’re wearing a scarf, do I try to take it off to compliment your neck? If you’re wearing trousers, do I quickly pull them down because I want to glance at your knees? Do you see how silly this notion is? If I’m wearing a hat, please leave it on my head. Unless you want me to return the compliment and glance at your knees.

Interesting, too from one friend, who preferred that I remove my hat when eating. Why? I’m not using my hair to eat, so it can remain covered, yes? Similarly, I don’t use my bum when I eat (this part, I’m sure you already realise, comes later), so it too can remain covered. I’ve very fond of the gent who said it to me, but relations were strained when I suggested that he remove his cravat when we ate. Not for any other reason. Other than it was cravat. And that is ridiculous.