A chap ought to be loyal. To his friends, family and barber. A chap also needs routine. A secure routine to ground his life. Like going to the same barber every couple of months for year upon year upon year. Barbers figure large in my life, though, admittedly, I give them (for mine are a pair) less and less to do as the years roll by.

I found myself once, several years ago, in Seoul, at a vast trade exhibition, trying to convince the great Korean business community to buy my wares. With, it has to be said, little success. Day 4 had dawned, and the queues at my humble stand dwindled to an occasional leaflet-collecting student. My boss of the time arrived for a morale-building visit. "Come on, P" he says "Let's go and get a haircut. It will cheer you up." I was conflicted. Firstly, haircuts are a solitary pursuit. Well, not solitary. I mean there is a cutter and a cuttee, and there may be a few others around in neighbouring chairs, or even on vinyl covered rusting chairs, waiting, slumped behind the Racing Post or some out of date car magazine. But it is, essentially, a one on one experience, certainly not a communal activity. Limited necessary communication is by grunt. I wasn't sure about sharing the experience with my boss. And then there's the betrayal of my regular barbers, no-one else had touched the barnet for maybe 10 years. On the other hand, there's the boss, I mean, one ought to make the effort. And the curiosity. Can the Koreans with their (Racial stereotype coming up) straight hair manage wavy salt and pepper stuff. And do they understand the grunt communication system?

Well, it turned out not to be communal. It was personal. Very personal. This barber's was part of a complex of luxury boutiques beneath a five star hotel. I had my own cubicle. Heavy curtains were drawn around me. And the male barber managed my locks well enough. Unfortunately my extremely limited Korean couldn't comprehend what was to happen next. As the scissors ceased snipping, I waited for a signal that it was time to leave the chair. It didn't happen. A girl appeared, twiddled a few levers on the chair, raising my legs. And, before I realised what was happening, my shoes and socks were gone and my naked feet were in a sink that had appeared as if by magic, unfolded from the wall below the mirror. My feet were being washed by an oriental maiden. She was performing what is, I have come to know since, a pedicure. No sooner had this sunk in, but my right hand was being manicured by another maiden. And before too long, my left hand also. This, I thought, I could get used to. A bit 'girlie' perhaps but, hey, we're all supposed to be getting in touch with our feminine side aren't we?

It's not often in a chap's life that he gets to be attended to by three young ladies. Not in my experience anyway. As my various digits attained perfection, I wondered what would happen next. Would I be released? Or would, as might happen in dear old Blighty, my hair get a quick wash? I was right, the washing ritual is international. The chair was rotated, raised a bit, lowered a bit, and my head ended up in the same sink as my footsies were a few minutes ago. But to say that my hair was washed would be to miss much. Three shampoos, lots of massaging, some smelly stuff. Who knows what went on? But I am, by now, my nose buried in the fragrant armpit of a mute and very energetic young lady, nervous. I am far, far away from my comfort zone. Things are being done to me that I have never experienced, I don't understand the language, I am, by now, in a darkened cubicle with three young ladies, working a practised choreography that I don't comprehend. The chair, with all its buttons and levers was whizzed around again and had become a bed. I am hearing sounds from the next cubicle that indicate that my neighbour (My Boss??!!!) was receiving rather more enhanced services than I, and, indeed, was possibly nearing their conclusion. Surely nothing untoward could happen to me in a 5 star hotel? Surely not.

And then they started massaging me! Hands, neck, up and down arms and legs. Now, chaps, those of us who are male anyway, are governed by our testosterone. In youth the hormones course through our arteries, causing us to think of little else but the company of young ladies. Later in life (which is where I am) it's more of a trickle than a course, but even so (Those of a gentle disposition look away now, we are talking biology here) and despite the very strict commands the brain is sending out, there are anatomical bits of a bloke that do stir and try and respond to the stroking, sorry - massaging, of three young ladies. And one of them keeps repeatedly and apparently deliberately, returning her attentions to the area... in question. I am not relaxed. Sweat is beading on my brow. I am a worried man. Things are stirring that should not stir in public. I need to hide. Alone. And recover composure quietly.

The three ladies, chattering softly among themselves, suddenly all come together on the same side of my prone form. What's going to happen now? Should I cry for help? Is "Help!" universally understood. Should it be SOS? Or dot dot something or other? Will a band of Korean barbers rush to my aid. The girls together slip their hands under me and I begin to get the message. I am turned over. I am relieved to be face (and other bits) down. I turn my head to peek and see one of the girls is taking off her slippers! The other two form a step with their hands as if to give the other a lift. A construction that would be familiar to those of you who mis-spent their youth scrumping. Is this a new sport? Vaulting a round-eye? Thankfully, the slipperless one does not undress further. But... she mounts her colleagues' hands and then steps right up onto my back!. And proceeds to walk up and down, stopping here and there to knead with her toes. And make circles with the ball of her foot. The other two no longer pummel my limbs, but gaze at their companion. I have no idea what she is doing, maybe a pirouette every time she reaches my neck or coccyx. Whatever it is, her audience seem appreciative. I half expect them to produce cards judging her performance. And it's OK. I begin to feel OK. The next time Mrs P accuses me of letting people walk all over me, I can say "Yes I do, and you know what, it's OK!"

And then, with one bound, she was free. Or, at least, off my back. And, by the time I raised my head, they had all three disappeared. My boss appeared - not, thankfully, from the groaning cubicle - and paid. And I quickly recovered my gentlemanly persona. A little crumpled in suit and comportment, but essentially in one piece.

But, of course, nothing is totally free. There was a price to be paid, later. Next time I visited my usual pair of barbers, there was a rather sniffy "Haven't seen you for some while, Sir." (Neither had called me "Sir" for many years, we had been, I fondly imagined, almost on Christian name terms.) And, when cutting commenced, a very disdainful thumb and forefinger raised some hair "Were we not able, Sir, to go to a proper hairdresser?" The whole haircut palaver was conducted in silence, nary a mention of their respective and oft-times mutual love lives, no gossip about the tailors across the road, no rants about the price of geraniums this year. It took me a full five years to return to a normal relationship. To this day, Christian names have not been used.