At the Sign of the Barber's Pole
Deep joy - I have at long last found a decent Barber's shop in Wiltshire. For years I have put up with an ever changing rota of feral youths in my local establishments who having passed an NVQ in holding sharp scissors in their pudgy white tattooed paws believe they are doing you a favour in randomly snipping bits of hair off. Unless you want a bleached cockatoo for a hairstyle you end up looking like Nick Griffen.
But tucked away on Winchester Street, Salisbury, I found a proper Turkish barber. Not only did he cut my hair properly in silence, I had the pleasure of him scraping round my neck with a cut throat razor, (maybe that is why Nick Griffen doesn't use a Turkish Barber), and the old flaming wand was produced to singe off the hairs in and on my ears and nose. If you have never had a Turk gently blowing a flame into your ear, and balming it with unguents of the orient, you have never been properly prepared to face the rigours of the day.