The taxi jerked to a stop so as not to hit the two beardy blokes who had bounced out of the Cereal Killer Cafe into the road.

“Nice smoking jacket, ya cunt!” the taxi driver yelled.

“That’s no smoking jacket,” I said.  “He’s wearing a bleedin’ bathrobe out as a coat.” I fumbled with my phone to get a photo, but missed my chance. “Hasn’t Boris made it legal for you guys to just mow down the hipsters?”

“Ha! If he had, it’d have been the only good thing he’s done, innit?” The driver rolled up his window and looked back towards me with a sly grin.  “Sounds like you could use some R&R.”

“Nah, I’m plenty rested. Just back from a weekend meditation retreat.” Three days of silence had left me chatty, but London had already put me back on edge.

“No, mate.  R&R, a new intervention service that some friends of a friend have started.” He handed me a card.

Rohypnol ’n’ Razors. 

De-bearding trendy twats,

one shave at a time.

“Hmm. So, your … ‘friends’ … they get rid of the beard or the hipster?”

“Well, depends how much you pay.”

I asked for the number.  Just in case.