I settle into my seat. The barber shrouds me in an enormous cloak, kind of like the thing you longed for as a child when dressing up with your mum’s linen sheets as Superman. Or The Greatest American Hero. He asks one of the usual barber questions, like “Were you looking at the match last night?”. I begin to open my mouth to reply when he appears behind me brandishing a mirror.
“How’s that?” he asks.  That’s it – my hair is cut! I wait for the cloud of hair to settle before replying. 
“Fine thank you. I guess”. 
“That’ll be a fiver. Sir”. 
A fiver for eight seconds work? The shagger should have worn a balaclava.  It's downright robbery.  In one very extreme case it cost me 35 quid, but that included a head massage and a cup of coffee. 
"Enough of this", I thought. "I can do it myself".  I bought a Barber in a Box Kit. 

"Professional looking haircuts at home" is what is promised on the side of the package. It contains an electric razor and 6 blade attachments that allow you decide how much hair you want to leave on your head. You can choose, depending on the season and what is currently "in", between the extremes of none and very damn little. It even includes an instructional video - "How to cut your family's hair". I haven't yet looked at this, but I believe it was Leonardo Di Caprio's big break. During the filming of this video, while influenced by the intoxicating rush of having successfully shaved the heads of all his family members, he perfected, with razor held in heaven-reaching arm, the dramatic technique required in the delivery of the exclamation "I'm on top of the world". Then the house sank and he died. 

Unfortunately having the equipment is not sufficient to enable you to cut your hair. Unless you're as flexible as President Clinton's interpretation of the words "sexual relations", you're not going to be able to shave the back of your head. For some people this is acceptable because, they argue, you can't see the back of your head. These people have no friends however, because hair left unattended at the back of your head for a few years assumes a profile identical to that of those aerodynamic helmets used by professional cyclists who want to go really fast. Thankfully I have too much self-respect to subscribe to that opinion. So instead I asked a friend if he'd mind cutting my hair. Richie agreed. 

I must admit I was a little apprehensive about trusting my appearance for the coming few weeks to a fellow engineer. I mean engineers are hardly renowned for pushing back the boundaries of fashion.
"Relax" he said. "My sister is a hairdresser".  Unsurprisingly this did little to inspire confidence because, followed to its logical conclusion, that statement implies that he would be comfortable allowing his sister to construct a bridge. How certain would you be about the sureness of a bridge bonded by bryllcream? That’s how certain I was that I would fit unnoticeably back into society after attending Richie's Barber Workshop. I closed my eyes and waited for a butchering. 

It was soon clear that to some people there is little difference between shaving a head and mowing a lawn. The force with which the blade was pushed across my head was sufficient to unearth even the deepest rooted follicle. I felt the skin around my face pull tight with every "stroke". I have stretch marks around my neck and ankles to prove it. If this is how his sister cuts hair I thought, there must be some fierce hardy women in Portlaoise. 
"This is easy" he said, while casually exhaling a breath of cigarette smoke. 
"Yes", I replied but through my deformed mouth it sounded more like “Nnnnwwess”. 

Soon the grooming activity in the kitchen became sufficiently interesting to distract those in the living- room from the TV. Around me, a group gathered to watch. Some of them stood in clumps of sheered hair and scattered it around the floor as they walked. Like builders examining the plumbness of a wall, they stooped to peer from every angle. 
"Give me a go" one of them requested, and by God, he did have a “go”. I began to feel like a ride in a fairground. Soon they all wanted in. Would you believe it, but cutting my hair had become a novelty event. Rather like petting calves is a novelty event for city slickers if, at some point in their lives, they find themselves visiting a farm. 

"Oops - the razor slipped", joked the latest amateur barber. 
"There is a big bald patch behind your ear" he continued, obviously as accomplished a comedian as he is a barber. In no time at all, the kitchen became a playground for smart-asses. 
"Lets leave his hair like it is now", suggested one (between them they had cut only one side of my head). 
"How about I put my initials on the back", proposed another. 
"Maybe we should shave it all off". Of course I had to laugh at this and pretend I was having a great time, because I had to humour them sufficiently to ensure they finished the job. I was hardly in a position to say "Cut the crap lads and get on with it" when, half way through the job, I looked like a hybrid of GI Jane and OJ Simpson. 

Eventually the razor stopped buzzing and, after inspection by the various participants, my hair was unanimously pronounced cut. They went back to watching TV and I ran up stairs to check in the bathroom mirror for embarrassing inscriptions embedded in my new haircut. I didn't find any and, thankfully, it looked as good a job as I ever had done before, while being many times cheaper. Or, at least, this was how it first appeared. The true cost became clear while in the pub that evening and I was repeatedly told by the newest members of the barbers guild that "Hey, ya bollix, you owe us a pint for doing yer hair". I told them they could get lost. I felt confident in my refusal because they were hardly in a position to undo the job. But when they threatened to drag me back to the house and have a go at it, I relented and dug into my pocket. I didn’t really mind though. It was my round anyway.