I had my hair cut earlier this week and experienced a first: the barber shaved the outside of my nose.

I am blond and never been hairy; so, I was rather shocked, as the barber told me what he do if he were the England coach, he ran the razor over my nose.

In my Tooting secondary school the boy (?) who developed hair (not on his nose) first was looked upon as a demi-god and immediately voted unofficial form captain.

When you’re twelve you’re desperate for hair to grow everywhere; when you’re sixty-seven you’re wondering where it’s going to sprout from next.

Up until this week my un-Pinocchio-like nose had been untouched by human barbers’ hands, let alone sharp implements.

Clearly the barbers is a place where you experience firsts in your life:  When you don’t have to sit on the wooden booster plank; when you no longer have your mum telling the barber what you want (usually armed with a photo for a years-old magazine).  These are all rites of passage which means you have become a man.

My not reaching manhood was put into sudden realisation the first time I was asked if I wanted anything for the weekend?

“A new boat” I had replied, as that weekend I was going to the ponds on Clapham Common.   Not the entertainment the barber had in mind.  Next!