Tabard Hairdressers (of Tabard Street) is a family-run concern: father and two grown-up sons. Father has an accent I can't place; sons are pure London (Son 2 walked in while Son 1 was cutting my hair: "'Allo bruv!" "'Allo bruv, where's Dad"?) Dad lit a fag while he was sweeping the floor; I can't remember the last time I saw someone smoking in their workplace. They're nice folk.
Getting my hair cut is always something of a gamble, as I have to take my glasses off during the operation so I have no idea what's going on up there until it's finished. I also 'have a double crown', which is hairdresser code for 'don't go blaming your genetically scruffy hair on me'.
Luckily the lads give a very decent snip for £7 (#4 on top, #3 on the sides, patient refused gel). They also call me Madam, ask how the 'moped' (ahem) is running and wave to me every morning and evening as I walk between motorcycle bay and office. That's service you can't buy.
There's hair in my coffee.