I want to start off by saying I’m not normally a cheat.

Sure, when I was a teenager, I used the cheat to get all the weapons on Grand Theft Auto: Vice City – but most people in my age group have done that, right?

Other than that I’ve always stayed (relatively) honest. Whether it be tax returns, girlfriends or telling a friend how much they owe me for the night before’s drunken cab ride.

But, today I cheated and I paid the price.

Like many men and women I have a preferred barber. In fact I have two. One in London and one back in my home town. Two chaps who I trust with my barnet and face fuzz.

As I walked back from work this evening I mused over the fact I soon needed a trim, and began to wonder when I’d have time to go – should I make the trip on the weekend or on a week night?

As I thought about it more I began to play with my beard – which is something most bearded guys do when they’re being reflective, and as I did I realised just how tufty and itchy my beard was getting.

I then passed a barbershop. One that I’d walked past many a time but never been inside. I made the fatal error of stopping to look at the price list outside – and, before I knew it, one of the barbers came flying out of the door.

“Sir! Step this way! Step inside, right this way…”

And I did. I fell hopelessly for this Siren’s trap. As soon as I crossed the threshold I realised I was in the wrong place – to say it was dingy inside would be like saying the Las Vegas strip was slightly illuminated. An understatement of titanic proportions.

I looked to the exit. But already I was flocked either side by razor-wielding barbers, jaws slathering like zombies for flesh.

Before I knew it I was tossed into a chair and a towel was wrapped round my shoulders. And there I sat, as helpless as one of Sweeney Todd’s victims, awaiting my inevitable fate.

After some arguing over whose turn it was, the biggest of the barbers lurched forwards – razor in hand.

“WHAT DO YOU WANT DONE?” he roared in a baritone that would rival all of Satan’s evil.

I managed to say that all I wanted was a beard trim (no way was I trusting these guys with my locks!).

And, thus, I got the worst beard trim of my life.

I emerged battered, bruised and clumpy-bearded within 10 mins. £5 lighter (they’d tried to charge £10 but I was less than willing to comply).

So, I’ve spent the last half an hour tidying up my beard.

My lesson in life? Don’t cheat.

We walk past a lot of barbers and hairdressers in our lifetimes, but if we’ve got something good – perhaps we should really think about whether we need to stray or not?

P.s. it’s national emoji day today… how does that make you feel? 

by ashley brown