Today

I'm just about to cut Paul's hair. We've got one of those electric gadgets that enables you to give an all over even finish without having to have much in the way of hairdressing skills.

I'm always astonished at how much hair actually lands on the floor, given Paul's rather scanty locks. And you can't just use the machine; the bits around the ears and on the bald patch needs sorting (it's not entirely bald, you see, there are wispy longish hairs sprouting).

So, over the years I've become quite good at, so that Paul rarely visits a hairdresser.

In My Day

I remember a Byrdian Society rehearsal. We had a concert coming up, but the wife of our conductor complained about him going out yet again (she was a singer herself, but with three children under five, and had had to back off a bit, so maybe there was a little envy there).

So Colin told her that he was going out to the barbers and instead turned up at our house for the practice. A music book was thrust into one of my hands, scissors into the other and I was told to cut Colin's hair while we practised. I think I was chosen because I was the "artistic" one, so ought to be able to cut hair. I certainly had no experience and, anyway, trying to cut Colin's fine, straight, floppy hair while also attempting to sing Allegri's Miserere, was near impossibility. But he didn't dare go back home without his hair looking shorter.

Anyway, Colin's wife was absolutely furious - with the barber, that is, and stated her intention of going round to complain.

These days Colin, remarried, sports a healthy mane of white hair and, having converted to Greek Orthodoxy, has a huge patriach's beard to go with it.