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.