London of the fifteenth century. Cobblestone alleyways, flickering oil streetlamps, elongated shadows. A tentacled fog, spreading ink, running like wine through the streets. Yet in the midst of this enigma, the great Renaissance was spreading.

In a shuttered little barber shop, two surgeons were bickering over the bald head of the customer.

Said the skinny one: “But I’m sure it’s ginger you’re supposed to mix in! I just read a new pamphlet about how it stimu– ”
“You lie. It’s clover and cinnamon. Parkins is a doctor and he said so himself. Clover makes the hair grow and ginger makes the hair turn white. Now just get to work,” said the large one.
“You yellow-bellied imbecile! It’s ginger, I tell you! That’s what makes it –”
“We’re not going to settle it this way, idiot! Why, I challenge you to a duel. You’re such a bag of bones, just wait till I get my hands on –”
“Slash it out, then! Draw your sword!”

Of course, the thought of a scrawny little fellow facing up to a former prizefighter amused the large one so much that he didn’t bother to draw his sword. With one blow he sent two of his colleague’s front teeth flying through the window and left him cowering in the corner.

“Humph. To think that a chicken-livered dimwit like him could beat me! What a fool.”

The winner proceeded to dump an extra helping of clover and cinnamon upon his patient’s head. After two decades of this treatment, the bald man continued to be a bald man.

(but of course ginger may not have worked either)