By a man who went in for a haircut and came out looking like a mushroom, only to discover that this was somehow the least surprising thing that happened that day.

Yesterday was my stepson’s 21st birthday.

The original plan, as far as I understood it, was for us to have a quiet dinner. Nice and simple. Food, cake, family, perhaps a little conversation, and then everyone goes home.

Then my stepson casually announced that he was having some friends over.

There are few sentences in family life more dangerous than “I’m having some friends over.”

Because “some friends” can mean anything from two people to the population of a small European country. And when the information arrives with very little notice, you don’t have time to establish exactly which interpretation you’re dealing with. You simply panic.

So my wife and I went into emergency mode.

We were suddenly running around buying food, decorations and birthday stuff, looking like a pair of people preparing for a natural disaster. What had been intended as a quiet dinner had somehow evolved into an event.

And that was fine. Plans change. Children grow up. Apparently they also develop social calendars without consulting the people who pay for the electricity.

In the middle of all this, I suddenly remembered that I had a problem of my own.

I was flying to Minnesota the next morning to do some surveying, and I would be meeting a completely new group of people at work.

Which meant I needed a haircut.

This was not vanity. This was professional survival.

My hair had reached the point where, if I had walked into the meeting looking as I did, people might reasonably have assumed I was the guitarist in a grunge band that played exclusively on Tuesday nights in the back room of a bar.

That would not do.

So while my wife was negotiating with the grocery store as though she were attempting to secure a hostage release, I went next door to a hair salon.

There were three hairdressers.

Two were experienced.

One was a trainee.

I was third in line.

I would like you to guess which one I got.

Yes.

The trainee.

Of course.

Now, I should mention that all three hairdressers were Vietnamese women, and before my haircut everything seemed perfectly cheerful. They were chatting away with one another, laughing, talking and generally getting on with the business of making people less hairy.

Then the trainee was called to take me.

And something changed.

One of the experienced ladies immediately started talking to her in a very serious tone.

I couldn’t understand a word of it, but I didn’t need a translation.

I have lived long enough to recognise the universal language of “What the hell are you doing?”

She was clearly not thrilled that the trainee had been allowed to take her own customer.

Unfortunately, that customer was me.

So there I was, sitting in the chair, suddenly feeling like the experimental aircraft at a test pilot convention.

The trainee started rummaging through a drawer containing scissors, clippers, buzzing things and other objects that, under different circumstances, could probably be used to dismantle a lawnmower.

Then she asked me something.

I had absolutely no idea what she said.

Before I could respond, the other lady came over, gave the trainee a look that could have drilled through concrete, then turned to me, smiled and asked:

“What number?”

I assumed she meant the clipper setting.

“Three,” I said.

This apparently opened an international conference.

There followed a considerable amount of discussion.

More explanation.

More discussion.

More looks.

I began to realise that selecting “three” had perhaps been a more complicated decision than I had imagined.

Eventually, the trainee got started.

Buzzing.

Cutting.

Spraying.

Buzzing.

Cutting.

Spraying.

Then she looked at me.

I looked at the mirror.

Everything was symmetrical.

This was encouraging.

Unfortunately, so is a perfectly symmetrical mushroom.

I looked like one of those little mushrooms that appear in the spring after several days of rain.

So I said, as politely as possible:

“Maybe a little more on the top.”

She nodded.

More buzzing.

More spraying.

More cutting.

She looked.

I looked.

The mushroom had not gone away.

It had evolved.

I now resembled one of those mushrooms that grow on the side of a tree.

The sort that appears on an old oak and looks as though nature has installed a wooden shelf.

“Maybe a little more,” I said.

And so we continued.

Buzzing.

Spraying.

Cutting.

Looking.

Half an hour passed.

At this point I had stopped thinking about the haircut and started thinking about whether I could legally board a plane wearing a hat.

Eventually, the experienced hairdresser finished her third customer.

She looked over.

She saw my face.

I don’t know exactly what she saw, but I suspect it was the facial expression of a man reconsidering several decisions he had made in his life.

She intervened.

And, to be fair, she did an excellent job.

When it was finished, I actually had a proper haircut.

I didn’t look like a mushroom anymore.

I looked like a man who could plausibly conduct a survey in Minnesota without being mistaken for the entertainment.

And I wasn’t angry at the trainee.

Not at all.

Everyone has to learn somewhere.

Unfortunately, on this particular afternoon, “somewhere” was my head.

I hope she learned something from it.

I certainly did.

I learned that when three hairdressers are standing around discussing your haircut in a language you don’t understand, and one of them looks increasingly unhappy with the situation, you should probably stop giving instructions and just pray.

By the evening, the birthday party was underway.

My stepson’s friends arrived, and naturally they brought presents.

There were ordinary gifts.

Nothing unusual.

Then one of them handed him a gift that happened to be a pistol.

A gun.

For his 21st birthday.

My wife nearly passed out.

I told her to calm down and be reasonable.

After all, this is Texas.

The explanation was that now he was 21, he needed his own American freedom.

This baffled me slightly.

Because from my standpoint, he had somehow managed to survive the first twenty years of his life without needing one.

Twenty years.

Two decades.

Not a single firearm apparently required for the journey.

And then, on the 21st birthday, suddenly:

Congratulations. Here is your freedom.

Well.

Texas.

My wife is not a great fan of things that go bang.

She wasn’t happy, but she let the matter go.

For now.

And that “for now” had the unmistakable sound of a future meeting.

This is actually part of a long-running domestic disagreement.

At one point I asked her whether I could get a shotgun for home protection.

She said no.

I found this interesting.

Because apparently if someone breaks into our house in the middle of the night, the preferred defence strategy is diplomacy.

We will reason with the intruder.

Perhaps offer him a cup of tea.

“Excuse me, sir. I realise you’ve entered our house through the window at two in the morning, but would you mind terribly leaving?”

I’m sure burglars are renowned for their willingness to compromise.

Perhaps we could form a committee.

I could chair it.

My wife could take minutes.

The burglar could explain his concerns.

Then we could all agree that this has been a misunderstanding and he could kindly put the television back.

Personally, I have always regarded a shotgun as a defensive rather than offensive object.

Ask any sportsman about this and, if you have accidentally given him enough time, you will soon receive a lecture lasting longer than most parliamentary debates.

One of the things I was once told about was something called the “Ohio shuffle.”

Now, before anyone starts writing to me, I should point out that I am not presenting this as advice. I am simply recounting the rather extraordinary explanation that was given to me.

The idea, as it was described, was that you load a shotgun with a mixture of birdshot and buckshot, supposedly beginning with two loads of birdshot, followed by buckshot, then another birdshot, and finally buckshot thereafter.

The theory is almost comically polite.

You assume that anyone who has broken into your house is also armed, so you get yourself somewhere safe, call 911 and, according to this particular theory, the first birdshot is essentially the firearm equivalent of a strongly worded letter.

“Excuse me, sir. You are currently in my house. Would you mind terribly reconsidering your career choice?”

If that doesn’t work, another birdshot is supposedly intended to discourage the intruder without necessarily causing the same level of injury associated with buckshot.

And if the fellow is still coming, then the argument becomes considerably less diplomatic and buckshot enters the discussion.

At that point, apparently, the homeowner has moved beyond customer service.

The whole thing was explained to me as a graduated response: start with something intended to discourage, then escalate if the intruder remains determined to continue.

It sounds wonderfully organised when you describe it over a cup of coffee.

Real life, however, has a nasty habit of refusing to behave like a demonstration at a shooting range.

And this is where I should probably put down my imaginary shotgun and make something very clear: birdshot is not some magical non-lethal warning load. It can cause catastrophic injury or death, and buckshot is obviously extremely dangerous. Shotguns also do not magically make every pellet land exactly where you want it to. The actual behaviour depends on the firearm, ammunition, distance and countless other factors.

So if you’re reading this thinking, “Excellent, I’ll try the Ohio shuffle tonight,” please don’t.

This is a blog.

Not a firearms academy.

I am merely explaining the bizarre conversation I once had about it.

My wife, meanwhile, remains completely unconvinced that any of this is necessary.

Her position seems to be that our house does not need a shotgun.

My position is that a shotgun would provide an additional layer of protection.

Her position is that it would provide an additional layer of paperwork, worry and things going bang.

And so the matter remains unresolved.

Which is probably for the best.

Because when your stepson has just turned 21, the house is full of birthday decorations, you’ve spent half an hour being transformed into a mushroom, you’re flying to Minnesota in the morning, and someone has just given the birthday boy a handgun, perhaps the sensible thing is to stop introducing new variables.

So that was yesterday.

A quiet dinner became a party.

A haircut became a botanical experiment.

A trainee hairdresser nearly turned me into a mushroom.

A 21st birthday present turned out to be a firearm.

And my wife once again demonstrated that, in the event of a home invasion, she has considerably more faith in human reason than I do.

All I wanted was a haircut.

I got a mushroom.

All my stepson wanted was a birthday.

He got American freedom.

And all my wife wanted was a quiet evening.

She married me.

Clearly, none of us got what we wanted.

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DISCLAIMER: This story is written for humor and is based on my own observations, conversations and experiences. Nothing in this article is intended as advice, instruction, encouragement or recommendation regarding firearms, ammunition, home defense, or the use of weapons. The discussion of guns and the so-called “Ohio shuffle” is included purely as part of the story and should not be taken as practical guidance. Firearms are serious business, and anyone dealing with them should follow applicable laws, proper safety practices and qualified professional instruction.

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