“I take my new haircut into town”

SATURDAY, 2pm.

I’m towel-drying my hair, meanwhile questioning the wisdom of having asked an old friend to cut it.

“I know she’s a hairdresser,” I think, rubbing my head, “but she’s also on her third glass of Chardonnay.” I watch her beadily, my doubts grave as she moves around her kitchen looking for a lighter. There’s definitely more than the usual air of incaution about her. But I’m on my second glass of Chardonnay, and feeling quite incautious myself; after she’s finished her fag I allow myself to be led to a mirror and plonked in front of it.