My hair used to be a lovely light blond colour, which with my blue eyes gave me the look of a young Steve McQueen. As I grew my hair darkened a little and people remarked that I had the look of a young Leonardo DiCaprio… presumably before he got fat. Lately I’ve been trying to project Daniel Craig, but people have stopped making comparisons so I can only assume that I look like me.

My hair grows thick and fast: luckily I seem to have more genes from Frowny than Smiley in this respect as his hair is getting thinner by the day and the very top part is disappearing altogether. Perhaps he has ambitions to be a monk. Curly Top – as his name suggests – also has a lovely crop of thick hair, which I often admire by yanking a tuft of it out. Sometimes there are tiny pieces of scalp still attached.

In my experience hairdressers are a pretty mixed bag. Those that have been lucky enough to work with me are often very young girls of a nervous disposition. They’ll start by tying a smock around my neck which, like most new things, I like to study in very close detail. If it’s of a plastic or rubber texture it’s usually worth a taste and I’ll follow this up with a test of the tensile strength with my teeth.

Bib abandoned – Boo! – she’ll start snipping away. Now I don’t think it’s very polite for people to start hacking away at me unless I’ve had a chance to examine the tools they’re using, so at this point I think it’s perfectly reasonable for me to grab the blades as they’re passing for a closer look. And when I say closer look I like to hold them very near to my eyes.

I always do this.

Smiley forewarns them that I will do this.

And yet they’re always surprised, sometimes traumatised when I do it.

Some girls have been known to give up at this point. One poor girl was reduced to tears – I really don’t think she had the temperament for hairdressing. This has become a problem: as long as the hair is out of my eyes I don’t particularly mind how I look but Flower Girl keeps telling me that it’s social suicide to go about with half a haircut. Sometimes a more senior hairdresser will appear and make the best of what’s been started and we make a hasty exit. Sometimes it’s made plain that we aren’t going to be welcomed in that establishment again and we have to find another hairdresser. I’ve been to a lot of hairdressers.

Aside from the need to inspect the equipment I’m afraid I also suffer with a short attention span, and the need to sit still for 10-15 minutes while someone minces around behind me with a pair of scissors is so Boooooooooorrrrrrrrriiiiiiing…

I try to amuse myself with a look around the shop but Smiley and the hairdresser seem to think this is a bad idea and try to get me to look at my own reflection. I can appreciate other people’s high regard for my appearance but I really don’t feel I can stare at myself for that length of time without appearing vain. So I’ll look down at the hair falling in my lap or on the floor, or if there’s a sink I’ll sit as far forward as possible to see if any water has appeared. Sometimes I’ll try to slide down in my seat to the floor, or tilt my head back as far as I can and take a look up the hairdresser’s nose. Mmm!

Over the years Smiley has developed a lot of techniques to entertain me. These usually involve hand-held mirrors (easily dropped), water sprays (which make me jump, with unfortunate consequences to the haircut) or toys which he’ll give me, then immediately remove when he realises the hair is sticking to them. If it’s a particularly dull session I’ll take a handful of hair clippings and give them a quick chew, though I’ll admit this is probably an acquired taste and not for everyone.

For the last couple of years we’ve been going to a big, smiley Northern man who tells rude jokes and waves at me every time I pass his shop. This is about as far removed from the cry-baby little girl hairdressers as it’s possible to get; although jovial and entertaining, he doesn’t stand for any nonsense. He gives me all the tools to examine before we start and he lets me sit in my own chair and do my own thing: as I look one way he swoops in and cuts the back. As I look up he swoops in and snips the front. He even lets me play with the buzzy clippers that he uses on the back and the sides (though last time I tried them on my tongue so we might not be doing that again). He is always happy when he cuts my hair – though he does sometimes work up a sweat – and I’ve never left with half a haircut.

He’s a professional, and I admire that.

Respec’.