Wiggy Pop

Did you see Iggy Pop at Get Loaded In The Park at the weekend? Iggy, 61, and his perfect head of flowing, blond hair?

If ever there was a good reason for a young bloke to form a band - and money, travel and hedonistic excess aren’t sufficient temptations - then it should be the undiscussed but obvious benefits to your thatch during your later years.

Fame is nature’s Minodoxil; it appears, literally, to go to superstars’ heads, giving each ageing rock star follicle the strength of a thousand new kids on the block. You don’t need scientists to tell you that, just switch on one of those old farts’ music channels.

Observe Bowie’s chameleonic ever-changing coiffure; wonder at Steve Tyler’s youthful, luxurious mane; quiver along with Mick Jagger’s Jilly Cooper-esque layers. Even Peter Perrett - from the ’70s one-hit punksters The Only Ones - still boasts a gleaming, Ron Wood bouffant, despite years of obscurity, substance abuse and obvious malnutrition.

And as for The Edge, fame bypassed his scalp altogether and grew him a hat.

Of course, there is a handful of poor unfortunates overlooked by nature: Elton John, Frank Black.

But on the whole, rock stardom seems to confer immunity from baldness. However, that follicular advantage could be nothing to do with strutting around on stage and soaking up the adulation.

An alternative view could be that those endless streams of nubile young ladies maintain our super-annuated musicians’ youth, a bit like medieval European royals, bathing in virgins’ blood to keep ageing at bay. What other explanation could there be?

After all, weaves and plugs - ­so superficial, so un-rock ‘n’ roll - are for Hollywood actors and Duncan Bannatyne. I guess rock gods were just born fortunate.

And talented. Lucky them.

Sarah Maybank