My social distance barber uses hedge-cutters

A METALLIC whirr cut the dank, dark subway’s eerie stillness like a knife.

The distant glow of a sodium street light picked out the line of men shuffling nervously and tugging at towels round their necks.

“Your turn,” a masked individual clutching the chattering clippers whispered before gently placing me against the bolthole’s cold bricks.

With his young assistant illuminating the scene with an unsteady Bic lighter, he set to work. Running his hand through my unkempt locks, he asked: “Going anywhere nice for your holidays?”

He took a step back. “So, short on top and tidy the sides?”

As scissors chattered in the spring evening, a piercing torchlight suddenly burned through the bitumen blackness.

“Coppers!” someone shouted and panic-stricken men hurled their towels to the ground and raced for the safety of Quinton High Street.

The illegal, backstreet barber was not so lucky. As I fled from the scene gulping for air, a voice barked: “Put down the scissors and step away from the deckchair. Officer, bag up the gel, talc-puffer and the mirror and send them to forensics.

“You’re nicked, sunshine,” he told the cowering crimper, adding cruelly: “You’ll need something for a lot longer than the weekend, sir.”

The sudden rise in black market barbers is just one symptom of these strange, diseased times. Lockdown – like 1920s prohibition – threatens to criminalise previous law-abiding citizens.

That chilling fact was hammered home as I scanned the online police warning over the perils of underworld hairdressers.

I fingered my own botched bonce – a “short back” halted by the police raid before “and sides” could be added – while viewing mugshots of shamefaced punters sporting naff crops.

“Don’t let this happen to you,” shouted the bulletin. “Many of these so-called stylists have no qualifications and use dirty, infected scissors. By turning to them, you are funding serious, organised crime.”

The latter allegation seemed a tad over-the-top. It takes an awful lot of trims to purchase a Kalashnikov.

My meeting with a chiropodist was equally fraught. She removed hard skin shielded by a large parkland rhododendron bush. When walkers ventured too close, she lied that I’d injured my ankle and was administering first aid.

Both she and I have, through coronavirus, been tempted to stray from the straight-and-narrow. Many others have similarily buckled under lockdown.

With nail salons, hair salons, waxing centres and tanning studios blighted by strict restrictions, things could get ugly.

My own legitimate barber, known as Sid the Snip (since his vasectomy), is back in business.

I have to book well in advance, however, and, to abide by social distance regulations, he is currently cropping locks with very long hedge-cutters. Trimming eyebrows is tricky.

In any case, I have rung three times since Monday. On each occasion, Sid was fully booked.

In my local supermarket, which I cannot enter without a mask, an overofficious worker repeatedly warned me to keep on the polished floor’s footprint markers while queuing.

The same young man bellowed “back off”, with the urgency of someone ordering a felon to retreat from the handgun he’d placed on the ground, as items were scanned.

The solitude of dusk’s countryside stroll was monitored by a drone.

The Big Brother state spawned by this pandemic is necessary, but tiresome. Without these restrictions, many more would be stricken.

Police officers are doing what the Government has told them, but many will be frustrated that lockdown is interfering with their pursuit of real criminals.

Mind you, if you’re a group indulging in an outdoor picnic while less than two metres apart from other families, you are, by today’s definition, a real criminal.

The Manchester Evening News reports Cheshire Police have over the last four months handed out summonses for such dastardly deeds as “driving due to boredom” and “going to the shops for non-essential items”.

Given that three quarters of items in shops are not a matter of life-or-death, the latter is confusing.

Just tell assistants you’re psychologically addicted to Cheesy Wotsits or, if in doubt, bung a toilet roll in with the trolley load of booze.

Yesterday, I ventured out to buy two bottles of plonk. I had butterflies akin to embarking on a jail break.

In an attempt to lift spirits, our online edition, BirminghamLive, has produced a “15 things to look forward to when it’s over” guide.

It states: “Things certainly feel bleak, but it’s important to remember this won’t last forever.

“Here are some of the things we can look forward to once we defeat the virus...”

Depressingly, they are largely pursuits, such as going to the theatre and even “making memories”, that I avoided before the crisis.

I’ve self-isolated out of choice for years. When the Government forced it upon me, I felt an overwhelming urge to start a conga-chain.

I’m still socialising. At 9pm, I’ll probably hit the living room.