For years, Lloyd Griffith had been worried about going bald. Finally, he took the plunge and had a hair transplant. Here, he describes the unexpectedly empowering result of tackling his fears
On a Saturday, while my mum was working at the local Wimpy, my auntie’s boyfriend would take me to watch Grimsby Town. After one game, I bolted through the door to tell my mum that I’d learned some new songs. There was “Who’s the wanker in the black?” to the referee, and “Shut up baldy” to the opposing team’s manager. My mum explained the referee was probably doing his best and that the manager couldn’t help being bald.
Twenty-five years later and I was sitting in hair and makeup on the set of Soccer AM while the makeup artist covered up the bags under my eyes. I’d got home at 2am after doing a comedy gig in Manchester and then got up again at 6am. After touching up my face, she reached for a pot and started sprinkling black powder generously on my hair. “It’s for the cameras,” she said, “so the lights don’t bounce off your bald patches.” It felt as if I’d been heckled, but had no comeback prepared. My stomach dropped. It was the first time that I’d been described as “bald”.
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