Good news: I am still alive. And so I live to tell the tale, of how a soccer game almost ended my life.

It has been at least seven weeks, and likely much longer, since I last had a haircut, and it was driving me mad. Not that I was starting to look like a hippy, but it's the fluff at the back of your neck that gets to you more than anything else. It catches on your collar, itches, and as it rubs it is a constant and annoying remjnder that you are OVERDUE for a haircut.

I have been putting it off, I admit, partly because I have never had a haircut in a foreign (i.e. non-English speaking) country before, and in France the word for hair - cheveux - is remarkably similar to chevaux. The last thing I wanted to do was walk into a salon and ask for my horses to be cut.

But the itchy and scratchy stuff on my neck got the better of me, and I rehearsed instead that "I have need of a cut", figuring that if I am in a barbers it will be fairly obvious that it's my hair in question and not some equine quadruped.

I walked the back streets of Beaucaire knowing I had previously seen lots of coiffures for hommes, and it didn't take me long to find one, a pleasant, spotless and bright wee place on the Rue de Morte. (No, just joking about the street name...)

I walked in, trying not to look anything remotely to do with horses, and sat down to wait my turn. There was one man in the chair just being finished off, and another beside me waiting. The barber looked not-from-these-parts shall we say, and when he spoke to his customers it wasn't in French. Something possibly North African?

My suspicions were confirmed when I saw that the FIFA soccer game on the wide screen TV was between Morocco and the Ivory Coast. It was well into the second half and the score was Cote d'Ivorie 1, Morocco 1. CIV were demonstrating superior posession, no doubt about it, and within minutes of my sitting down they scored again, taking the lead 2-1.

The customer in the chair left and the man on my right climbed in. Little was said. The tension was palpable. The only sound for the next few minutes was the clippers as they scoured the head of the latest customer, in a trendy short, back and sides leaving a tuft on top. That was okay... he was only in his 20s and it looked good, but in my head I was rehearsing, "J'uste une coupe s'il vous plait, mais pas comme l'homme derniere". (Just a cut please, but not like the last man)

When it was my turn to take the chair, Abdul (no, I don't know if that was his name, but it'll do for now) raised his very dark eyebrows at me. In my best French I told him - somewhat meekly - that I was from New Zealand and didn't speak French well. Before I could explain how I wanted my horses trimmed he shrugged and said, "Ce n'est pas grave", basically that it was okay, he'd cope.

He did this by ensuring i wouldn't utter a single further word whilst there by tying the smock so tightly round my neck I could hardly breathe. No need to worry about answering questions about where I'd been on my holidays then.

The previous customer didn't leave, instead returning to the waiting seats to watch the remainder of the game, which by now had less than ten minutes to go. CIV were keeping up the pace and Morocco were making lots of mistakes. As Abdul started on me with the clippers one of the CIV players was awarded a yellow card and there was a smugness and sureness in the barber's strokes. I think I knew now which side he supported.

His clipper strokes matched the play on the screen... If Morocco gained posession he would pause, if Ivory Coast looked like scoring he would attack my head with a vengeance. I feared that if CIV continued with the upper hand I would lose all that I posessed on my head, which wasn't much.

Then we were into extra time, with the score still at 2-1 to Ivory Coast. The previous customer was on the edge of his seat. Abdul was still matching on-field play with his on-head performance, and then as the minutes ticked away it was time to clean up my neck, for which he brought out a cut-throat razor.

The phrase "dying minutes of the game" occured to me as I tried to watch the screen while he forcibly pushed my head into my chest and scraped at the fluff on my neck. I coild only hope he was paying more attention to me than the TV. The soccer was too much for the previous man, he just got up and left, which worried me as my only witness had now gone.

And then it was all over. The final whistle. Disappointed Moroccan faces in the crowd, a jubilant Cote d'Ivorie through to the semi-finals, and the last strokes of the razor scraped across my neck in slow disconsolate deliberation.

After I was dusted off I looked in the mirror and reflected on the shortest haircut I have had since I was seven. I don't mind though; at least there was no foul play.