I went to the barber's yesterday, in need of a trim. (Several people have asked if the photo on my book cover (see previous post) is me. No. Really, no.) I'm lucky I can do this, as just a few minutes drive away there is a village with a genuine, down-to-earth, none of that fancy appointments business, barber shop where you turn up unannounced, sit and read the paper, then take your turn to be shorn.
It's a very strange village, if you didn't know what was causing the oddity. Despite having only two to three thousand inhabitants, it boasts two hairdressers, the barber's, and two Indian restaurants. This can only be down to the well protected compound down the far end of the high street that is the Royal Military College of Science, with students from all over the world in need of haircuts and curry.
In the end, though, the 'why' doesn't matter so much as the fact that the barber's is there. And long may it remain.