Those were impertinent questions I asked of him, and he obliged by responding. Unfair, given our positions, since he was providing a service to me and clearly courtesy to clients is an overwhelming obligation in that situation, particularly in that profession. He was prepared to look beyond a perfect stranger asking questions of him of a personal nature. But then...

In providing his professional expertise in service to me he had asked the same kind of questions. Granted, He was young and I was old. He did that mental shrug over the 'wisdom' of the elderly. I told him straightforwardly that my querying of him reflected a perceived entitlement of the old to presume that their years gave them a kind of immunity to the normal social contract of courtesy. He laughed.

He had help with his hair, he responded. Another hairdresser shaved the sides and back for him. He looked after the rest. 'The rest was a super-abundance of very well behaved platinum-coloured curly locks suspended at the top of his cranium. He had a quite long face, with regular, even exquisite features, perfect in their equilibrium. And a bright, accommodating smile. He was also very tall, almost skeletal, moving with exaggerated semi-poses.

And he was cutting and shaping my hair. At a conservative estimate it has been 35 years since I last sought the services of a hairdresser. All those years I've been taking scissors in hand, consulting a mirror and snipping away. But at my age...never mind. In any event, about three months ago I suddenly decided to snip no more. I would allow my hair to grow. I had become too diligent in cutting it, and it was far, far too short and unattractive.

And had now reached the point where vigorous growth had resulted in a headful of hair responsive to the elements. My hair is naturally curly, robust, plentiful and usually in bad temper, adamantly refusing to obey my plaintive commands. Warm, humid atmospheric conditions particularly challenge any resemblance to neat and orderly, my hair becoming a frizz of silver-grey.

Corey, my young and vibrant hairmesser-for-the-day took my hair in capable stride. I ended up with a semi-Flapper haircut, and was pleased, except when the face looking back at me assumed a gigantic resemblance to my late mother who sometimes wore her hair this way; hers was straight, plentiful and short.

When I caught up with my husband he looked at me in such a startled manner that I was certain the effect was anything but pleasing to him. He said I looked so different that we could have passed one another on the street and he wouldn't have realized it was me. But he became genuinely effusive in his admiration for how I now look.

I forbore from washing my hair this morning; highly unusual. Another thing: I've a dreadful ache at the back of my neck, attributable to the most uncomfortable position I was exposed to when Corey was washing my hair. He had helpfully brought me a cushion to sit on, hoping it would elevate me enough to reduce discomfort.

This is a high-end, technically and stylistically modern salon which their pricing reflects. One might assume that ergonomic work stations would be a requirement, for the comfort of the clients as well as the functionality of the staff.