One of the most trivial hurdles to jump when on operations is that posed by the problem of getting a haircut.

A quick fix solution would be to shave the lot off, but I am disinclined to burn the old onion anymore than is entirely necessary.

Standards, both those of the army and those of a gentleman dictate that growing the mop is also a non-starter. So I plucked-up the courage to go to a dingy place at the airfield run by dour middle-aged Russians.

My heart was in my mouth when I saw the only English words on the price list were ‘flat top $5.25’.

Anyone who has seen any war-movie featuring those ‘drilling and killing’ machines, the US marines, will understand my horror.

Keen not to be sporting a ‘jarhead’, I mentioned this, the hairdresser spoke no English and so the upshot was I had no idea what was about to happen.

My panic, much like my writing, was a lot of fuss about nothing, for, like every time I have had my haircut for the last thirty two years, the result has been astonishingly underwhelming.