Sam looked at his hair in the mirror. His normally thick mid-brown locks, which draped over his shoulders, had been stroked blond by the summer sun during his four week stay in Corfu. All his mates were envious of his wavy hair as most of them were now gradually losing their own to male pattern baldness. But Sam was actually getting fed up with the hassle of washing and blow-drying his hair every other day to maintain its smartness. He longed for a shorter cut and decided that today was to be the day.

First, a quick phone call to his usual stylist to make an appointment. No luck there, all the stylists were booked solid for today and tomorrow. One by one he tried all the salons he’d used over the past few years. None of them could fit him in. But it had to be today. He had an interview tomorrow for a motorcycle paramedic’s job in east London. "Oh shit," he yelled as put the phone down on his last hope. His partner Dave heard his yelling as he arrived back from his night shift at the local hospital.

Unlike all Sam’s mates, Dave wasn’t that keen on the long hair which Sam had sported ever since they met 3 years ago. His own hair was cropped into a short crewcut, a sensible style for his occupation as a junior doctor in the Accident & Emergency unit. When Sam told him of his wish to get a cut before tomorrow, Dave handed him his coat and pushed him out the door.

"Try Mike’s barber shop down Parliament Street instead of those ghastly salons you usually frequent," he yelled before slamming the door bad temperedly. He’d had an awful night, trying in vain to save five casualties from a traffic accident in town and just couldn’t be bothered with Sam this morning. He needed sleep to forget the past night's traumatic events and recover in time for the next shift this afternoon.

"That wretched hair of his, he fusses over it like a tart," he muttered as he stripped off and collapsed on to the bed.

Meanwhile Sam, upset by Dave’s reaction, wandered off down the street and into the local coffee bar in the town centre. He ordered a cappuccino and sat himself on a seat by the window. He spotted the barbershop opposite, not Mike’s but an old shop he’d been taken to for years as a youngster by his late father. Joe’s shop had character even if the paintwork was getting a little worn. He could smell again the aroma of the barber shop instead of the coffee he was drinking and recalled the buzzing of the clippers that used to be run up the back of his hair on his father’s instructions.

"Short back and sides with a trim on top please Joe," his dad would say, except for the one occasion when the primary school had been invaded by hair lice. On that occasion Sam’s hair had been clipped almost to the bone as a precautionary measure, although he had no sign of any infestation himself. He laughed when he remembered the shortest cut he’d ever had. Actually he’d looked good and tough, or so he thought. However, his mum had wept buckets when Sam arrived back home with his dad, who had also got his own hair clipped to the scalp as a measure of moral support for his son.

"That was just like Dad" thought Sam, a bit gruff on the outside but with a compassionate heart and a spirit of camaraderie, particularly where his only son was concerned. Sam actually used to enjoy his barber shop visits with his dad. Something that they could do together when leave from the army or a home based posting permitted it. It was never the same when his mum took him whenever Dad was away.

Sam finished his coffee and strolled across the street. He poked his head round the shop door and was spotted by Joe. "It’s Harry Jacobs lad Sam isn’t it? Long time since we’ve seen you here eh. Come in lad and take a seat, I won’t be a moment" shouted Joe in his broken English. Joe di Marco had come over to England with his parents in the late 1930s to escape from Mussolini when the going got too hot too handle for his dad, an active opponent of the fascist government. Joe had been taught his trade as an apprentice of Uncle Guiseppe after the 39-45 war.

Sam, hypnotised by the unique aroma of cologne and hair oil, sat down on the bench to wait his turn. Joe meanwhile was executing a perfect flattop on a guy who Sam recognised as one of Dave’s colleagues from the hospital. The back and sides had been clipped completely free of hair and then carefully lathered and shaved smooth. Sam looked at this cut and sat with his eyes fixed on the guy as Joe finished it off with a dusting of powder.

It looked awesome, particularly as the guy had a great jaw line and rugged handsome features. Sam remembered that he was from the US, a medic who was over here to work alongside the English wife he’d married the previous summer. When he got out of the chair, his tall, lean and tanned body towered over Joe. He paid and then left the shop.

"You’re next, Sam" beckoned Joe. Sam sat down in the chair and the red and white striped cape was placed over him. "What’s it to be then eh lad?" Sam heard the words come out of his mouth unexpectedly. "Same as the last guy please Joe". "Sure thing Sam" replied Joe with a gleam in his eye. With that he took the clippers in his hand and flicked the switch. They sprang into life. Joe grabbed Sam’s skull, pushed it forward towards his chest and proceeded to run the clippers up the back of his head. Sam felt the cold steel of the blades slide gracefully up the back and sides as Joe removed every last trace of his hair at the back and sides in less than two minutes.

"That’s the easy bit" laughed Joe. "Feel cooler now Sam? Sam nodded nervously though he was actually beginning to enjoy the experience and remembered his dozens of cuts in the shop as a young lad.

"Your old papa would be proud of you now Sam, eh?"

Again Sam nodded. His dad, an army sergeant for 20 years, hated Sam’s long hair and longed to see him get it shorn again like his. But dad had died 2 years previously, quite suddenly, within 3 years of his army retirement. Sam muttered to himself, "Are you watching Dad?" He was actually finding this exciting.

Having finished clipping the back and sides, Joe got to work on the top. First he took the scissors and, with wide sweeps, took the top hair from eight inches down to no more than one inch. He then rubbed some wax in the hair and brushed it vigorously until it stood firmly to attention, nearly as straight as Sam’s dad always did on the parade ground every Sunday morning when his mum took him from the married quarters to watch the parade. Joe then raised the chair by six to nine inches so it was almost level with his own eyes.

The clippers clicked into life again and he slowly ran them freehand through the top hair from back to front, occasional stopping to flick the loose hair which fell into the cape and on to the floor, by now covered with Sam’s sheared blond locks. Joe kept repeating this movement. Sam could sense the hair on the top of his head getting shorter and shorter, until he actually felt the steel of the clippers touch his scalp and carve a line down the centre of his head. He looked at the mirror and, as his formerly sun-stroked locks fell helplessly into his lap, saw the very top of his scalp gleaming in the reflection of the fluorescent light immediately above his head. He liked what he saw.

Joe switched off the clippers and replaced them on the hook in front of him. He walked over to the basin and filled it with piping hot water. Taking the shaving brush he massaged it into the shaving soap and then walked back to the chair where Sam sat in eager anticipation. Joe vigorously rubbed the brush against the bristly back and sides of Sam’s head, creating a thick lather.

Tossing the brush back into the sink, he took the straight razor and carefully shaved down the right and side of Sam’s head. Sam shivered as the cold razor made first contact but then relaxed as he began to enjoy the sensation. Joe continued shaving the sides, repeating the downward stroking movement as he skilfully worked his way around the back and then finished on the left-hand side. A cold breeze wafted in, and caught Sam by surprise as it hit the back of his head. He liked the feeling.

Joe wiped the surplus lather from Sam’s scalp and then retrieved the hand mirror from behind the basin. "Well Sam, what do you think of that then, eh?" Sam saw the back of his head for the first time. The scalp was pink with being so newly razored, but it looked superb to Sam. Joe removed the cape, and Sam stood up. As he turned, he saw that the shop had now filled up with customers, all of whom were staring at him in astonishment.

"Great cut, mate. Think I might try that" said a youngish guy in a fireman’s uniform, next in line for Joe’s attention.

Sam fumbled around his coat pocket for the money to pay Joe. Meanwhile the young fireman had seated himself in the barber’s chair. "Same as him please mate" he said to Joe, nodding his head in Sam’s direction.

"Blimey, three in a row" laughed Joe. "Nobody’s gonna have any hair left soon round here."

He paid Joe, tipping him handsomely, and marched out of the shop. He felt really good and kept rubbing the shaved back and sides of his head. Somehow this new cut had changed things. He strode down the street confidently and round the corner to the apartment.

Arriving home, he accidentally slammed the door hard behind him, rousing Dave from his well-earned sleep. The bedroom door opened and Dave appeared.

"Break it down why don’t you?" Dave grumbled, irritated at being woken. He peered, bleary eyed, at Sam, then turned to retreat back to the bedroom. Suddenly, he stopped and spun around on his heels.

"Wow Sam, that looks great" he exclaimed. "I know I wanted you to get a haircut, but this is something else!"

He wandered over to Sam and, grabbing him, turned him round so he could see the back.

"Wow where did you get that?"

"Joe’s in Bridge Street" replied Sam with a grin on his face from ear to ear.

Dave felt the back and sides. "What do you call this?" he commented admiringly.

"Sunstroke!" Sam answered with a grin.