"So how does sir like it?" she asked as I sat in the comforting surroundings of the barber's chair, engulfed in the sheet, tissue paper stuffed down the back of my neck.
In the background the radio played. Not the soothing sounds of Radio 3, Classic FM or even the light banter of Radio 2, but the brain-dead thudding of commerical pop radio, the latest chart hits cleverly hidden within streams of dreadful adverts and a hopelessly deranged Dr Fox clone giving a shrieking listener the chance to stand out in the rain at a movie premier with an "Its B, you idiot" mulitple choice quiz for mind-numbing simplicity. Then more dreadful adverts with oh-so-funny parody songs show-casing a local taxi firm, followed by something vocodered-to-shite this is neither rhythim nor blues, bought into the charts by tone-deaf fools so they can listen to it through tinny speakers on the back seat of the bus.
A sign on the notice board shows they've actually paid the Performing Rights Society to give their customers this aural lobotomy.
"How does sir like it?" she asked again as I studied my reflection in the mirror, deciding I don't even want to sneak a look up the armholes of her T-shirt as she worked for cheap thrills.
"Done as quickly as possible - you actually listen to this bollocks?" I didn't say.
"You go day in, day out with this shite pouring into the mush that's left of your brain? No wonder your shop's empty," I also didn't say.
"Christ, you might as well have a sticker over the mirror saying 'You don't have to be MAD to work here, but it helps!!!' - oh, but look, you do," I continued not saying.
"Trim all over, square at the back," I actually said.
"Going anywhere nice for your holidays?"
"Twenty years to life, at this rate," I didn't say.
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