When getting my haircut, a common conundrum is that the hairdresser tends to get within very close proximity – something I really don’t mind when it’s an attractive young female. However, recently at one of the city’s most prestigious and expensive salons, I was surprised to find that ‘Constantine’ was, in fact, male. Not a problem, as I usually prefer to get my trim done by a guy, however, this was different. Said hairdresser proceeded to slice and dice for an hour, spending at least 80% of the time with his meat and potatoes sitting on my shoulders. There was a moment or two when I thought he might actually have been getting a little motion in the ocean whilst pressing against me! I feel like mentioning the invasion of personal space would only make it far more awkward, yet I’m not a huge fan of getting my hair cut and my face dongled. How do you approach this situation?

Close Shave, San Francisco

Dear Close Shave,

I can see it now: Constantine pfaffing around you in flurry of scissor snips and sweeping comb gestures; his thighs squeaking together as he leans across in his leather trousers, his shoulder-length raven hair brushing the tips of your ears as he trims yours sideburns. You can smell the espresso on his breath and a faint hit of Cerruti 1881 as he runs his hands laden with styling product through your locks, longingly maintaining eye contact while he manipulates your mop into the perfect quiff. His ever-so-slight grinding motion could be disguised as his passion for his craft but you know that you’ve just been the victim of a follicular assault. You cringe and grip the armrests beneath the protection of your nylon gown, sweating under its intense makeshift greenhouse. He lets out a satisfied sigh and unveils the back of your head with a mirror – it’s the perfect cut, but somehow you can’t help but feel violated. You pay quickly and begrudgingly and make your quick escape, leaving the seventy dollars’ worth of product you felt obligated to buy sitting on the counter. The sordid experience has cost you the same as what it would have for an hour with a lady of the night, you feel just as dirty and you didn’t even get a blow … dry.

Never forget who is wielding the scissors and who has thusly, the power position. Believe me, when I have complained about the service or the lack of technique at the salon, I have ended up with an experimental short fringe that only those found in an asylum can pull off; and even then, their cut has been hacked with a breadknife in the middle of a midnight OxyContin binge/breakdown/suicide attempt. And once that’s done it’s not a matter of squeezing more play dough ‘spaghetti’ through a garlic press and attaching it to your noggin, that mess is going to take the longest time possible to grow before you can feel human again and cease your recent pixie classification. Invest in a decent hat, a wig or get your weave on, girl, because you’re not going to want to leave the house without it.

You must treat your predicament deliberately and tactfully. Mention your girlfriend and your plans for the weekend, or invent one if she doesn’t exist. Talk boldly about your heterosexual conquests, your interest in organised sport and your love of anything that smells of grease (cars, motorcycles, fast food). Failing that, change hairdressers, shave your head or move to a different city – Constantine and his cronies rule the greater San Francisco area; so when in Rome suck it up or go home.