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Mademoiselle Olulabelle, I would not dream of allowing my valet to attend to my tonsure. He would, however, identify a gentleman's needs and attend to same efficiently and discreetly. With minimal fuss. And a gin and tonic to calm my nerves.
I have heard that le dernier cri in the world of male coiffure these days is a charmingly naïve little salon, staffed by lovely girls and boys from Eastern Europe and Korea, that charges only Five Pounds, whatever the cut, and is in the veritable bowels of Soho, in Romilly Street.
Admittedly, I have my head shorn in a trice these days to emulate the nap of a well-conditioned beaver but what choice have I, as a homosexualist of a certain age in London? None whatsoever, I submit, ma chère. |
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