NOT wishing to steal any thunder from my esteemed colleague and fellow columnist Peter Unsworth, I too overheard a revealing conversation last Thursday.

Two young boys, aged between eight and 10, were walking their bikes along Botley Road, doing what boys the world over do at that age – gleefully beating the hell out of each other.

And as I approached, one of them, trying to push his best friend into a group of girl students (the WORST imaginable crime as I remember) shouted: “At least I’ve got hair, baldy.”

Surprisingly, this wasn’t directed at me but shorn and shaved little Johnny (or Biff or Billy) who, quite rightly, was now trying desperately to scrub and scrape away any shameful debris from his female-friendly collision.

“Well at least I’m not as bald as him,” he replied, and clearly, I WAS the focus of conversation this time.

But before I could steel myself for the inevitable barrage of slap head jibes, the tone miraculously changed.

“Yeah, but that’s cool,” said tearaway nipper No.1, with an inflection that – and I won’t swear this to be fact – betrayed expressly his sense of awe.

And while my brain reeled from what I thought he said, his comrade-in-arms piped up: “Yeah, just like Beckham...”

[Pause to allow full weight of above comment to sink in] Now, if these were more innocent times, I would have slipped each of them a fiver as appreciation for their extraordinary insight and discriminatory taste.

But instead I just walked on by, albeit with a sudden, noticeable arrogance to my gait and a refreshing new appreciation for the disarming honesty of our youth.

Interestingly, and some of you may have spotted this on our letters page last Tuesday, came a request for readers to send photographs of themselves to an author, compiling a book entitled Me and My Hair – A Social History.

The author wrote: ‘I would be delighted to look at any distinctive hairstyle in Britain between the 1920s and the 1990s. If your photo is selected for the book, your name will be acknowledged beside your picture. A cure, surely, for a bad hair day...’ Too right, but sadly said author wants only female contributors, thus eliminating me. And that hurts.

You see, believe it or not, I once boasted my own National Trust lawn of such sleek, well-groomed hair that, when caught by certain, gentle breezes, it would sway and undulate like a field of golden corn.

But then I hit 23 and lost it all overnight as I struggled to deal with the break-up of Benny Andersson and Anni-Frid Lyngstad (half of Abba).

Since then sadly it’s all been... well, smooth.

Isn’t it nice then to at least know that tomorrow’s generation bears no prejudice against those of us who look like new-born babies.

May they all look forward to final salary pensions...