On the train this morning I was sitting behind a guy who obviously thought that the answer to his follicly challenging situation was a discreet comb over. And as I sat behind this poor guy, the words to a song began to form as if by divine intervention. And this is what the voices in my head were singing to me (sung to the tune of Hot Blooded by Foreigner);

Comb Over, Check it and see

I ain't had no hair since I turned 33

But don't worry, cause no one can tell

I got a, Comb Over, Comb Over

Comb Over, Comb Over