I had a haircut. Being one of these swish urbanite metrosexuals, my haircut is as important to me as Wellington boots are to "them there country folk".

I avoid "Male only" hairdressers as they tend to be for real men who have dirty fingernails who do hard graft and manual labour like builders or lawyers. Given the complexity and girly-ness of the treatments I get on my hair, I find it necessary to pick a unisex hairdressers.

I was worried. My usual hairdresser was in Amsterdam and I was booked in with A MAN. I have a simple rule when it comes to guys cutting my hair. It is imperative that he at least acts gay, even if they are as straight as George Michael, it helps keep up the ambiance. As soon as I walked in, I saw he was wearing a tight leather trousers and after 5 minutes I ascertained that he lived with a big bald guy called Kevin. I was happy.

The young YTS hair washer took me over the sink. I started leaning back with my head dangling over the bowl. Not the most comfortable place you could be in. She lathers, rinses and repeats. She is very slow and this is getting quite painful.

She then adds the conditioner. I can no longer feel her rubbing the back of my head. Has she stopped? No wait, I have lost the feeling in the back of my head. This progresses into the back of my neck. She rinses the conditioner and adds the colour sealant. By this time, I have lost all feeling in the upper half of my body.

"Right we're done, you can go back over to the chair."

I go to put what I think is my arm on what I think is the side of the chair and miss completely. And end up like a prat on the floor.