My barber retired about six months ago. He was only my third; I have friends who have had more wives than I've had barbers, but I'm the faithful type (with only one wife to match those three barbers). I don't see much pint in switching around once you've found someone who knows exactly how you like your hair, or whatever, done. So for the past six months, I've been like a small-town widower - dating all the barbers I've seen around the neighborhood for years, accepting tonsorial casseroles from the barbers or friends and relatives and even indulging in out-of-town dalliances with completely strange barbers in hotels when I'm on the road.

Which is what led me to Truefitt & Hill - barber to HRH Prince Philip, duke of Edinburgh - located in London and Chicago. Why not, I thought, since I was between relationships, have my head treated like a prince for a change? I'd once had a brief fling - a one-morner - with a London barber in the basement of Harrods. That had been pleasant. But that was before I found Ilia and Julita at Truefitt & Hill's Chicago shop. Now it's hard for me to imagine using as mild a word as pleasant to describe a haircut.

I went for the whole dirty weekend - the Prince of Wales Special: haircut, shave or beard trim, facial, manicure, shoe shine and pedicure. Yes, a pedicure - and shut up while I explain.

Inside the shop, just past the 1878 mahogany apothecary that was shipped from London for verisimilitude, I was ushered into an antique chair in a lushly curtained cubicle, where the lights were dimmed and a soft cloth was placed over my eyes.

Ilia - we met later - started trimming my beard below my still-draped eyes while other, even gentler hands removed my shoes and socks, tolled up my cuffs and guided my tired feet into warm water. Later, the hands placed my feet in a lap, where they were examined. They were scraped, anointed and soothed with emollients while, simultaneously, my neck, face and scalp were getting the same treatments. Like some blind combination of the Tin Man, the Scarecrow and the Cowardly Lion rolled into one, my abused body - neglected during long months in pursuit or our latter-day Emerald City - was being restored at both ends by unseen hands.

Imperfections were repaired. I was, while certainly not buff, at least being buffed. A small device was placed on my chest to generate steam. Toenails were trimmed and filed; cuticles (if feet have cuticles) were pushed. Meanwhile, Ilia placed warm towels, more warm towels and yet more warm towels on my face as the unseen hands tendered me a foot-and-calf massage.

Phase two began with the removal of the blindfold so that Ilia could address himself to my hair, and the short-skirted Julita - the owner of the unseen hands - could begin making my hands as happy as my feet. It worked.

The entire prince-for-a-day package takes about three hours, adds about eighteen months to your life span and costs less than an extremely cheap suit - $197, without tip. But you are, and trust me on this, going to tip the bejesus out of these folks. Especially Julita.

In London, the barbers at Truefitt & Hill say they visit HRH Phil once a week, in the palace. I figure I could get by with seeing Ilia and Julita once a month - a luxury that works out to about the same as buying two pints of Guinness a day. I've had ancestors who did at least that, and I can only imagine the state of their feet.

- TERRY SULLIVAN

GQ, October 1995