"Just trim your hair, Sir?"

I swear I said "No," but before I knew what was happening the scissors were running merrily over my head.

"Singeing, Sir?"

"Er—no. I—"

"Finest thing in the world, Sir. It's a treat to see hair like this. Just a bit 'endy,' but singeing will soon put that right."

Even had I been blind I should have discovered that I was undergoing the process.

"What would you like for the shampoo, Sir? Eau de Quinine—Violet—"

"I don't think—"

My feeble protest was cut short.

"I always recommend Violet," he said, sprinkling my head profusely.

More rubbing, more towels, more electricity and finally a brush and comb.

"I've a hair-lotion here, Sir—"

"No, thank you."

I meant it.

He helped me on with my coat, brushed off a deal of imaginary dust, said something about skin softeners and bath requisites, but I'd had enough for one morning, and I was yearning to get those cigarettes and have a smoke.

I tendered my pound note.

He took it, and with his best smile said—

"Another sixpence, Sir, please."