Durex and Old Spice

"Give him a short back and sides", was the instruction to the Welsh barber by my father when he left me for half an hour to have the monthly haircut.

I would sit on a stool next to a pile of glamour magazines which I dare not even glance at, let alone read. Large adverts for Durex hung on the walls. This was a male only establishment.

Mr Thomas did not like me. I went to school with his son who also did not like me. I think he described me as a spoilt, rich, English kid of the sort his father despised.

I would be tersely called to the chair and the ritual began. Mr Thomas ran the electric shears up the  three sides of my neck and head and I would brace myself for the finishing touch.

He pulled one ear out and lowered the shears down to where it attached itself to the head, cutting the little piece of flesh at the join. I would say that I did not want the styptic pencil because I knew from experience that it hurt more than the cut, but he insisted that it must be used to stop the bleeding. Then my father returned, paid David Thomas a few shillings and we got in the car to go home.

This happened every single time I had a haircut, but on my final visit I blurted out to my father what went on. Mr Thomas lied, saying that it was an accident and my unsupportive father seemed to believe him.

The next month I refused to go. I was threatened and cajoled but I held my ground. This was my first act of rebellion against my parents, but it would not be the last.

My mother had an image of me with shoulder-length hair, running around like the wild Gypsy boys on the edge of the council estates, but my hairdresser sister stepped in and took over from Mr Thomas for a couple of years until I was old enough to grow my hair in whatever style I wanted. I have been cutting my own hair ever since.