Go on, chaps - dare to dye

Don't knock alopecia. In my late twenties, a chunk of hair fell out at the start of my parting and grew back not brown but silver-grey. Without artifice, I had acquired a "look". However, as the years passed and the salt-to-pepper ratio on my bonce increased, the badger-stripe was in danger of disappearing into the mix.

Then my friend Amanda Eliasch, who is known for her style, suggested that I dye the surrounding foliage in order to restore the prominence of the streak - and so began an affair with the bottle that is now two years old. At first we tried a chestnut shade, but you could tell it was trying too hard: in the sunlight, I had that red, Paul McCartney glow. Instead Amanda plumped for a truly rock'n'roll, alley-cat black: "You must show you're proud to be fake," she said. "Fake is the point." So taking up some rubber gloves and an old toothbrush, a paper clip to keep the stripe clear and a sachet of Clairol, we set to. And on the very first go at black, we effected a transformation that worked wonders.

Seriously. Women began stopping me in the street and asking if I was a musician. Nicky Haslam, arbiter on all things uncommon, gave his blessing. "Very clever," he said. "Because people will notice the stripe first, they won't be sure what's dyed and what isn't." Not that I care. If anyone asks me how natch is my thatch, I always reply that only the streak is real. I'm not pretending to be younger, simply not going gently into that good night. Women have done it since the dawn of time.

If only the male great and good would follow the female lead, the world would be a more honest - and probably more amusing - place. No one blinked an eye when that comedy character Hazel Blears recently changed her shade. I can't even remember if Jordan is a blonde or a blackhead by nature. Yet after Barack Obama's outing as a bottle-black last week, on Friday we had David Cameron denying that he is a devotee of Grecian 2000 practices. "I promise you he has not dyed his hair," a "close source" told the Daily Mail, which went on to scrutinise the scalps of Melvyn Bragg, Robert Peston and Alastair Campbell.

You can see why men would rather not talk about tinting. In my own experience the younger generation is not unanimously convinced by my coiffure. (The words "mutton dressed as lamb" have been employed.) Nor is the female of the species necessarily attracted.

Such discouragements aside, there are practical considerations. A couple of weeks after treatment, I am normally conscious of my roots. A couple of weeks after that, my better friends begin to mention them. And while it only takes a few minutes to repair the damage, one's heart does rather sink at the thought that this ritual must be repeated for ever. Then there's the extra washing of towels and the collateral damage to pillows. For the first night or two after any intervention, my head leaks.

The time will come, I'm sure, when I will walk into a barber, order a number one crop, and sign up for the distinguished look - and having seen the grey-headed Tony Blair at the Chilcot Inquiry last week, that time may come quite soon. He's wily, that silver fox, spinning like the cares of the world have taken their trichological toll.

You wouldn't be surprised if it turned out he was really a ginger. But he must have decided that - at least in a court of law, if not that of public opinion - his new colour bespeaks his high moral values.

Now, where Tone goes, lesser operators follow. At 44, then, what should David Cameron do? Like early-power Blair, his youth is a selling point - so he wants to look just as he is, the youngest Prime Minister in almost 200 years. On the other hand, he could do with less plummy pomp and a bit more gravitas. Blair's Hair or Blair's Heir: it's a tricky one.