That’s one freakishly over-developed toddler getting a hair cut there. He barely fits in his little car!

A little car might take the edge of a trip to the hairdressers for me. I hate getting my hair cut, always have and always will. Not for any Withnail and I “Hair are your aerials, man” reasons….more that I hate being trapped helpless in a chair, whilst being fussed over with sharp implements and forced to stare at my own sorry reflection for an inordinate amount of time. I also hate that inevitably I’ll end up regarding my newly coiffeured barnet with a sinking feeling but as soon as I’m asked whether it looks okay by the hairdresser I’ll cheerfully lie and say “It’s perfect! Thank you” before handing over my money and, more often then not, leaving a tip. Then I walk into the street feeling strangely light headed, conspicuous and full of self loathing. I swear sometimes that hairdressers know they’re doing a bad job and in some cases actively push the boundaries for sheer entertainment. Maybe they run secret bets on which customers will make a fuss and which won’t. Once, in my teens, I was making a concerted effort to look as much like Liam Gallagher as I possible. This was a precise science that involved me aping his style right down to his simian walk. I went in clutching a photo cut out of the NME and showed them exactly what I wanted. Half an hour later and after some enthusiastic fringe trimming, I left not looking like Liam Gallagher but looking instead like Cadfael the crime solving monk. There was no way that the hairdresser hadn’t monked me on purpose….unless they were blind and I was fairly certain they weren’t.

Spotted by Stewart Sugg