I’m not going to charge you for this.

These are usually welcome words but on one occasion they were the harbingers of doom. I was about fifteen and had gone to the barber’s for a quick trim. The barber asked if I’d mind if the young apprentice cut my hair but within minutes, I could see in the huge mirror in front of me that he was making a dreadful mess of it. The senior barber suddenly noticed, flung down his scissors and gave his hapless apprentice a fearsome bollocking in Greek. He then turned to me and uttered those fateful words, explaining that to ensure that it grew back evenly, he would now have to administer a No.2 crop. When I got home, my mum went berserk at the sight of my crop and 8-hole Dr.Marten’s, so there was only one thing for it: go into my room and play a few skinhead anthems.