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The first guy was holding the the blade against the back of my neck as he began his commentary about the number of Polish immigrants in Scotland.
"Even my doctor is Polish," he announced, "I've always thought of him as a horse doctor."
Not that he was talking to me. This was just the banter with his fellow scalper across the floor of the barbers' shop. They didn't know anything about my own ancestry and I wasn't planning to tell them. At least, not when they were still holding scissors.

It had been an impulse decision to get a haircut while en route from Edinburgh's Waverley Station to the ³ÉÈË¿ìÊÖ studios at The Tun. Recklessly I had climbed the steep steps through Fleshmarket Close without rope or harness and, halfway up, (base-camp) had noticed the sign in the shop window. Had I been tempted by the promise of a stylish cut? No. Was it the array of bottled gels? No. Was it the special offer of an eight quid trim? Bingo. Thank you for playing. It turned out to be one of the fastest haircuts I've had since I outgrew nappies. Six minutes. Snip, snip, snip and a quick look at the back of my head in a mirror. You know the drill.

In fact, I had spent more time sitting in the black leather and chrome chairs waiting to be taken. I leafed through the and noticed that most of the papers had picked up on made by Billy Connolly on Radio Scotland. Seems like the 'Big Yin' and Sean Connery have thought about buying a struggling Scottish football club. I was planning to use this as the basis of my small-talk with the barber, but it wasn't required. Instead I sat tight-lipped as they talked to each other about Polish dentists and scoffed at the thought of Polish barbers.

Fifteen minutes later I was at The Tun. No one commented on my haircut. It may have cost eight quid but it looks as good as a nine quid cut if you ask me.
Jane Fowler, our Editor of Speech Programmes, told me about her recent trip to London and how many Polish people she had met there. Would there soon be a backlash of resentment?

I thought again about the barbers and felt guilty that I had said nothing in defence of the Poles. Instead I had made a silent protest. No tip. But I should have said something. Something pithy and powerful.

Or something cutting.