The old style Barbers with the traditional red and white pole outside the door, dark wood panelling stained with age and Brylcreem, and the smell of oil, shampoo and the other unctions and ointments, the alchemy of hair dressing There was a padded plank that rested on the chair arms to lift you to the right level, because you were small and the seats were made for grown men, where you went with your Dad or Grandad, and the question was an overheard fragment of a conversation from another customer, in a language you didn't quite understand.
Something for the weekend Sir? What's on offer? Tickets to the match on Saturday, the winning numbers for the lottery (don't you wish), or that something with a bit of a nudge nudge wink wink say no more, by the way how is your good lady? Most of it floats straight over your head. You're thoughts of the week end are about plunging through the comics and magazines at WHSmith while trying to ignore the itchy bits of hair that sneaked past your collar, or maybe even a book, something for the weekend and into the week beyond.