I’ve always disliked going for a haircut – it’s been the same ever since I was a five year old in Bromley and a barber lopped a lump off my ear.

I did escape going to get my haircut when we first came to France – we had a couple of years where Mrs B would cut my hair, or at least give it an all over shave with an electric rasor. Unfortunately, as the children got older they objected more and more often to my unruly appearance so nowadays it’s back to the hairdressers for me.

I wait until I look like ‘half-man half-yeti’ before going for a haircut, and then have it all cut very short. This ensures that the next visit is postponed as long as possible. It also means the hairdresser has no chance of guessing what style my hair used to be or is supposed to be. Today’s experience was fairly typical.

First I get given a couple of books of ‘models’ so I can choose the style I like. Usually these pictures are of 15 year old lads who are using an exuberant amount of hair gel to create all kinds of shapes with their hair, but seldom anything that would look slightly normal on someone my age.

Hair colour (females) and hair gel (males) appear to play a very large part in rural French life, for people of all ages, and wanting neither of these has me marked out as a ’stranger in these parts’ before I even open my mouth. For years, when I was employed and had to look presentable, I dreamed of having all sorts of dyed hair, radical hair, dreadlocks and so on. Now I’m self employed and can do what I like I have lost interest.

So as always I cast the books aside and try to explain what I would like. Sometimes this is made easier if there are some current ‘celebrity’ magazines to hand. I can then point at pictures of good looking chaps like Brad Pitt (he is the same age as me, more or less) in the hope they see the potential to make me look like a Hollywood movie star. They usually smile sympathetically and take the magazine away without giving it a second glance.

It is at about this stage that the huddle of old ladies in the corner usually cheer up – they realise they have at least 30 minutes of me trying to make polite conversation with the hairdresser ahead of them while they enjoy listening to me speak in my poor French accent. This is more fun for them than a morning at the old folk’s home, I promise you.

Sometimes, like today, there are also a couple of teenage lads staring on, nudging each other and wondering why I haven’t opted for one of the “pot of hair gel a day’ haircuts. In truth I think most men around here must get their hair cut at home by their wives, because the one common factor about all the hairdressers I go to is that they only ever have teenagers and elderly women in them, so I never really feel as if I fit in very well.

Anyway, sigh of relief, it’s all over now, and my hair looks acceptable even if Hollywood still aren’t knocking at the door. I can breathe easily for a few weeks more, and the old folk have a couple of anecdotes to tell their families this evening. So on balance, a great success.

By the way, I know that people on holiday from the UK often get their ‘hair done’ while on holiday because it is so much cheaper to go to a French hairdressers. Even with the sorry state of the pound I hear that there are still big savings to be made on haircuts – so if you were still wondering whether to come to France this summer, you now have yet another good reason!