Cuts both ways

What could be worse than a bad haircut? Toby knows the answer, as he contemplates pruning his lavender

- TOBY BUCKLAND

I LIKE getting value for money and that’s why, with an hour left on the city centre parking meter, I decided to get a haircut. The barber was just my type – a taciturn trimmer who barely spoke, let alone ask if I’d been anywhere nice or had the day off (‘no’ and ‘no’, in case you were wondering).

I was just dozing to the rattle of his clippers when a dozen burly police officers and sniffer dogs disturbed the peace, demanding to know if duty-free cigarettes and (intriguingly) ‘other imported items’ were being illegally sold from the premises.

I don’t smoke, but even so, I was a little put out that I hadn’t been offered any bootlegged swag. Then I worried that the contraband could have been squirrelled below my pink chiffon barber’s gown while I slept.

But if it had, I got away with it, for the coppers led their barber suspect into the back of the shop, leaving me to muse on the fact that there’s only one thing worse than a bad haircut – and that’s half a bad haircut.