Pither, The Pirate and the Traumatic Trim.

I know I'm old. I know I'm confused. I also know that I am an orphan tagging along behind the 21st Century Family - but I've just had my hair cut BY A FUCKING PIRATE!!!! What the Hell is going on?
It was time for the traditional, pre-Christmas Pither haircut but this year a woman friend veered me off course and suggested that I needed "updating" so she booked me into one of those "international, unisex styling salons to the stars".
Now, I'm nothing if not a traditionalist. Since I was a schoolboy I have always had my hair cut at Tommy Dunn's. Tommy's is one of the last proper BARBER'S in the northern hemisphere. You know the kind? There is a red-and-white, swirly pole outside, red and white, curling lino on the hair-strewn floor, flypaper, cracked tiles and a gaggle of sullen blokes waiting their turn while they all read the Racing Post in silence - and, of course, there is Tommy. He is a chronic depressive, he chain smokes and the only words he ever speaks after you sit down are "whaddya want?". Customers down the years have then said things like "a little off the sides, shaved in at the neck and just a light trim on top". Tommy then proceeds to give everyone the same German-helmet-style cut he has been giving since V E Day. The cut takes as long as it takes for the fag in his mouth to burn down to just above the filter. When the ash finally falls to the floor, he has finished. You can spot Tommy's customers in town a mile off. "You've been Dunn, haven't you?" is the familiar greeting.
Well, things have apparently moved on. I went to the "salon" I had been booked into spot on 11am to be greeted by a gorgeous, blonde FFF (fit, filthy and forty-something) dressed up as Santa - complete with beard! I was shown to a seat and offered a glass of sherry and a mince pie (appropriately enough) by a majorly limp-wristed young lad who made Charles Hawtry seem butch. Fuck, it was like being at Larry Grayson's house. Then the bearded FFF came over and dropped two copies of OK Magazine in my lap to while away the time until my "stylist" was free. I can't say the articles appealed to me - "Jordan Exclusive" (What the fuck is that? We've seen everything we can, apart possibly from her hypothalamus), "How Kate Garraway lost three stone" (Probably by taking off her fucking makeup!) and "Inside the mind of the Beckhams" (Christ, that is one small crawl-space).
It was at this time that I noticed something you don't see at Tommy's every day - a gaggle of absolutely gorgeous women "stylists"...........all in fancy dress. There was Batwoman (a total wet dream if ever there was one), a '20s good-time-girl and a harem girl. Then MY scissor sister walked over. Another FFF, absolutely beautiful - dressed as a pirate! It's hard to tell someone how you want your hair cut when all you can concentrate on is trying to make your erection go down! Anyway, by that point I didn't care if I came out looking like fucking Shane McGowan!
To cut (pardon the pun) a long story short, she did what she does best (although, all the time I was hoping it was what she did second best) and I ended up looking like someone who had just stuck a waxed badger on his head.
Tommy charges £4.50. He's always charged £4.50, ever since I was a kid. Like me, he doesn't move with the times. The cost of my 21st Century bouffant? £14.50!!! I assume the extra tenner was for the pleasure of having a pair of pneumatic breasts rammed into my neck and round my ears while the cut was proceeding?
No, sorry. It was all too surreal, all too much. Give me Tom every time - no hard-on, no sherry, no pirates - just "something for the weekend". Let Grantham have the rest.