In the beginning I used not to be able to tell Kelly and Hayley – the identical twin hairdressers who came to the house appointments – apart. Eventually my wife furnished me with a handy mnemonic: Kelly cuts, Hayley highlights. From then on, I knew them by their tools.

I don’t need that crutch any more: since my wife decided to go grey, we only have Kelly. She arrived at 11, and I am already in the chair, hair wet, a towel over my shoulders. Kelly is on her phone. My wife is sitting across the table from me.

“That was Hayley,” Kelly says. “She says hi.”

“We haven’t seen Hayley in ages,” my wife says.

“So, what are we doing?” says Kelly, turning to me.

“The same as always,” I say, taking off my glasses. “Making the most of what remains.”

“He’s going bald, I’m afraid,” my wife says.

“After a certain age you’re meant to be bald,” I say.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” my wife says.

I only hear snatches of the subsequent conversation above the buzz of the clippers, but I can tell the topic is still thinning hair, its various causes, presentations and remedies. The general theme seems to be: it doesn’t have to be this way; not any more. My hair, meanwhile, is landing in my lap in clumps.

The clippers stop suddenly.

“So I need to sign him up?” my wife says.

“Yeah, it’s like a subscription thing,” Kelly says.

“Who’s this?” I say. I turn towards my wife, and see that she has her laptop open in front of her.

“He needs a password,” she says.

“Are you talking about me?” I say.

“Baldy123,” my wife says. “Remember that.” The clippers start up again. In the minutes that follow, I get the distinct impression that a lot is happening. The clippers stop.

“There’s a whole questionnaire to fill in,” my wife says.

“Because the treatment is tailored to the individual person,” says Kelly. On the one hand I think: whatever this is, I want no part of it. On the other hand: nothing about me, without me.

“Ask,” I say.

“When did you first notice the hair loss or thinning?”

“Twenty-six years ago,” I say.

“Is the loss primarily front of head, crown or all over?”

“Front,” I say.

“Front and crown,” says Kelly.

“What are your priority hair goals?” my wife says.

“My what?”

“Do you have pets?” she says. “How weird. Why do they ask that?”

“It’s something to do with the active ingredient,” Kelly says.

“Oh, I see,” my wife says. “It’s poisonous to pets. You’ll have to have the capsules instead of the spray.”

“Capsules?” I say. “I’m not taking baldness pills!”

“Don’t worry, I’ll pay,” my wife says.

“This is all happening very quickly,” I say. “I’m not sure that I …”

“Hang on,” my wife says. “I need to take a picture of his head.”

The clippers start up again as Kelly attacks my beard from the side. For several minutes I hear nothing of the conversation at all. Finally, Kelly removes the towel and runs a brush round my neck. I stand.

“Much better,” my wife says.

“When it’s a bit thin, it does look better shorter,” Kelly says.

The middle one comes downstairs to take my place in the chair. He’s had his hair trimmed quite recently, but he knows that a free haircut you don’t really need is still free.

“It does grow so fast,” says Kelly, tugging on his locks. Up to a point, I think.

I spend the rest of the morning in my office, staring at my dim reflection in the screen of my computer, and occasionally rubbing my head. I’ve been fortunate: over the years my hairline has retreated so gently that I’ve barely noticed. And as long as I avoid harsh overhead lighting and photographs of myself, I still barely notice. I like to consider this acceptance, but it occurs to me that acceptance and not really thinking about something are not quite the same. Even if the latter strategy has served me well for decades, it can’t work for ever.

In the end acceptance becomes your only option. Perhaps, I think, it’s time to meet acceptance halfway.

My computer pings, signalling the arrival of the new email from a company I’ve never heard of. The subject line reads: “Your hair journey starts now!”