The locks were long and cumbersome when I meekly shuffled into the barbershop. It was time for the yearly cut. This particular establishment had caught my eye by virtue of offering hair-dressing for only £5. My hair certainly needs dressing, I thought, as my subconscious added an unnecessary 'So do you'. However I had no time for such childishness and quickly subdued my inner voice with a swift punch to the chops.

Ensconced in the chair I awaited the game of chance that is 'Barber roulette'. On this occasion I was alloted a lady of Eastern European extraction with rather too many years under her belt. 'Too many pies you mean,' added my subconscious. I was forced to poke it in the eye vigorously with my right forefinger until it begged for mercy.

By this time I was attracting quite a fair few complimentary looks from the surrounding staff and patrons, but I did not let my head swell one-sixteenth of an inch. Instead I turned my attention to the immigrant worker admiring my reflection in the mirror.

'What you like?' she asked, her accent strangely reminiscent of The Count on Sesame Street. I replied in my usual manner, as befits a man accustomed to having the same haircut for his entire life (barring one unfortunate incident with a salad bowl).

'Just a trim with a four on the back,' I said. She looked at me as if I had just tweaked her nipple. I hoped this was not my subconscious at work. 'What?' she asked.

I repeated my request, a little more forcefully this time. She remained ignorant of my desires. Thus I was forced to pick up the electric razor and demonstrate, enunciating 'Number Four' very deliberately while holding up four grubby fingers. The lady recoiled in horror, raising her scissors in self defence. Perhaps I had just insulted her mother.

At that moment I realised that I would not receive a satisfactory haircut. She clearly had never encountered electrical devices before in her life. In frustration I bade her use her scissors, fearful that otherwise I might lose all my hair as well as my patience. 'TRIM!' I bellowed. 'SCISSORS!'

Half an hour later I emerged looking like a choirboy, albeit a choirboy in the process of being buggered by a member of the Catholic Church. She was clearly a conceptual artist of some kind. I paid up and left. Needless to say she did not receive my customary 10p tip.