Somewhere in the Celestial Book of Statutes, there is an entry stating that I will never, ever, be given a decent haircut.

Now I may go to Vidal Sassoon in the West End (and I have) or a barber in backstreet Kathmandu (and I have). No matter. The results will always be the same: I will turn from someone I recognise and vaguely approve of into a stamp collector called Colin. And this in somewhat less than an hour.

At the time of writing, I have not had my hair cut for 5 months. Consequently, I sport Medusan tendrils, which have a habit of coiling salaciously around innocent people’s legs in shopping malls.

The time is clearly nigh.

Not surprisingly, I’m frightened - it’s rather like risking your life savings on a dodgy mining concession in South America…