I entered the hairdressers in a state of fear and trepidation. I hadn’t been in years. Literally. The last 5 years have spent in a sinusoidal wave. Wife shaves my head with clippers. Hair grows for a few months until it becomes a health hazard. Wife despairs and shaves my head again. Hair grows to an obscene length where it could potentially trip people up as I walk down the street. Wife shaves my head again, and so on.

Why break the cycle? Well for starters my wife hates shaving my head. I tend to mess about – like all men do when their partners cut their hair. “Stop that,” she’ll say, “leave me alone.” I also have the job of cleaning up the hair which riles me beyond belief. I’d rather head down the post office on pensions day and wait for hours sweltering in a queue of elderly folk.

The two hairdressers were overweight middle-aged men who thought they were hip and trendy. Basically when it comes down to fashion there are a number of categories.

1) The fashionable.
2) Those who don’t give a monkey’s. Myself for example.
3) White middle-aged men who think they are it.

The bloke that cut my hair was clad in a tight red t-shirt stretched over his belly, surf shorts and flip-flops. His hair was short on top, but he had a pleated mullet. I thought those were illegal. Dumbass will be furious that I didn’t take a photo and Mr Condescending will probably shed a few tears but I didn’t get an opportunity. He was a frivolous babbler. Not that I could hear much of what he said, they had some RnB channel playing on an unimaginably large plasma. It nearly made my ears bleed. I did pick up some stories though.

Apparently a guy came in last week, claimed to drive a Porsche Turbo. 269mph, he said. Right, they said. Cliff Richard borrows it from time to time, he said. Right, they said. The engine starts when you do this, he said, splaying out fingers in Star Trek style.

Another guy came in with a mangy old sheepdog. The hairdresser crouched down and petted its head. “Don’t go near her,” said the owner, “she’s a trained killer.” “Oh,” he replied, and asked about the guy’s occupation. “If I told you that I’d have to kill you,” he responded with total seriousness.

I love the fact that even though these guys were clearly nutters – they was deadly serious – they still had the awareness to go for haircuts. I think I’ll go back there, just for the stories.

There is a man a few tables away that has caught my attention. He is a flagrant violation of fashion, a delicate fusion of goth and businessman. Did I say delicate? When I say goth I mean the type of goth that is borderline punk rocker., not that I’m any expert in goth classification. His hair is a bizarre blow dried mop, half bouffant, half lemming, half Boris Johnson. Maybe I should have used thirds.

He is clad in a smart black suit, black shirt and black tie, relaxing in the lethargy of a lunchtime pint, apparently oblivious to the seismic upheaval going on in my mind. Stoical, a vacant face, eyes masked by huge dark sunglasses (you’re indoors you idiot), he carries a dignified air but also looks little uncomfortable, probably because his clothes are SO DAMN TIGHT!

A stick insect would have struggled to fit into those trousers, his shirt is so stretched he nearly poked a passing diner in the eye with a nipple, his tie is so thin that a spider would have used it in his web, the knot of his tie is the size of a stunted pea, his shoes are so pointed that a jester would have mocked them.

I’d better stop, he’s looking this way suspiciously and appears to be muttering, probably along the lines of I wish that damn knigget with a laptop would stop scrutinising me. He’s not one of you guys is he?