When I was younger, I wondered what the tipping point would be. You spend all your early years yearning to be older, only to look up and see adults trying to pass off as younger. I’d contemplate where the intersection lay: when do you stop growing up and start ageing?

I’m sorry to say that I think I finally have the answer. My epiphany came to me a few months ago when I was having my hair cut, and the hairdresser stopped cutting and moved his face close into my head…

“Next thing, I thought to myself humorously, they’ll be bringing me a wine list!”

A bit of backstory: it was the day before my 21st birthday, we had people coming over and my hair was deemed inappropriately long. It was, however, a Sunday and the only place open was a rather fancy-looking salon. Still, I thought: needs must. (I would later rue that expression.)

I first realised something was amiss when I walked in and was greeted by a kind lady. At the door.

I had only had my hair cut in my local barbershop before (and once, memorably, by my mother. We managed to get most of the hair off the kitchen floor, but I think some of the tears remain) so I was not used to this kind of restaurant-style service. Next thing, I thought to myself humorously, they’ll be bringing me a wine list!

And then they did. Literally. They came and offered me a drink. Fuck, I thought, as I realised that I had accidentally stumbled onto Millionaires’ Row. The more I looked, the more it became clear. Every single customer was tall and beautiful. Or at least, their eyebrows were, as that was all I could see poking above the copies of Vanity Fair. Occasionally an eyebrow shot up, presumably because they’d just spotted themselves.

The seats were not mere chairs but leather thrones. I – being unglamorously short – had to be hoisted up to mirror level. When I had adjusted to the new altitude, I was now apparently tall enough to qualify for my silk-stocking coiffing. Kind Lady One disappeared and was replaced by Kind Lady Two, who was there to “talk me through my haircut”. At this point, fearing for my bank balance, I thought I should leave. But of course, being British, that wasn’t an option – I was in too deep now. Besides, I thought as I sipped my Chardonnay, it would look rude.

“The whole room went silent. The Vanity Fairs came down. Kind Ladies Three to 12 spilled out from behind mirrors to see what had happened”

Finally, Kind Lady Two left, and I (now robed) was walked over to get my hair washed. Since being able to do it, I have always taken the rather pioneering decision of washing my own hair. As my neck was jammed into the porcelain cradle (turns out millionaires have slimmer necks too), I could see why I’d always opted for self-service. They offered me a head message and I thought: in for a penny, in for a grand. This turned out to be the least relaxing thing which has ever happened to me. I sometimes still have flashbacks.

I was wheeled back to my original seat, where Kind Man One now appeared, scissors in hand. He brought with him an un-thumbed copy of Esquire, which I tried in vain to read over the now-oppressive noise of my overdraft weeping. It was about two-thirds of the way in when he zoomed in on my penurious locks.

He plucked from my head a lone (that’s an important detail) grey hair, and held it aloft, looking on in both disgust and awe. The whole room went silent. The Vanity Fairs came down. Kind Ladies Three to 12 spilled out from behind mirrors to see what had happened. A grey hair? This was unprecedented.

Three-legged feline stressbuster proves a hit at economics library

Eventually he finished cutting, I re-mortgaged my parents’ house and got up to pay. As I walked across the silent room, the other customers tilted their heads in sympathy. Today had been a bad day for this junior pensioner, and they knew it.

So I’d like to apologise to all the family friends who got a quieter, more-introspective birthday boy that day. It wasn’t your fault. I was just busy worrying about whether I’d remembered to record Countdown.

And should my younger self ever ask me at what age you start to age, I can answer. Twenty-fucking-one. Or maybe that’s just me