Capital Letters

When they come to write the history of early 21st century Beijing, it will probably not even merit a footnote, but last Thursday was a big day in the life of Cui Zengxu, the cycling barber.

After more than 40 years of clipping, cropping and trimming, the 75-year-old gave a final haircut on one of his prime spots: Jiaokou, the muddy, bumpy, anachronistic dirt-track that serves as the northern border of Chaoyang Park.

Next week, that road will cease to exist and the last of his customers in the neighbourhood will have been moved out so that the land can be prepared for the least indigenous of Beijing's Olympic sports: beach volleyball.

Jiaokou has always been one of Beijing's least salubrious areas. But now it is a wrecking zone. Streets of debris form the backdrop for Mr Cui's mobile, open-air salon. The few buildings left have "chai" (demolish) signs daubed on the walls. A nearby pond has been filled with rubbish. A plaster statue of a woman sits amid a row of smashed houses and gutted karaoke bars.

Mr Cui appears to be cutting hair in a wasteland, but it does not seem to faze him. Although it is the last of countless fortnightly visits to the Jiaokou community, he pedals up as usual with a bag full of brushes, razors, clippers and mirrors, unfolds the chair that is his place of work and patiently waits for clients, who pay the equivalent of 20p for a 30-minute trim, regardless of age or style.

There is not much time for nostalgia in Beijing, arguably the fastest changing city on earth. From experience, Mr Cui knows it is better simply to move with the times.

He has seen fashions come and go. During the insanity of the cultural revolution, customers asked for half of their heads to be shaved. After that traumatic era, people preferred a steady short-back-and-sides. Since China opened up, his clients are more picky, requesting a variety of styles.

But Mr Cui appears to have his own ideas. I've never seen any of his customers escape with anything less than a military crop. His last three customers - a small boy, a migrant worker and me - all left with the same style, no matter what request we gave to begin with.

"I know you said you like a bit of a quiff in the front," he said. "But while I was cutting your hair, I realised it didn't look good, so I've done it all the same. It's a big improvement, don't you think?"

It was too late to grumble. In any case, a complaint would not have gone down well. Mr Cui is from a generation that endured the murderous famines of the "great leap forward", when much of Jiaokou was still farmland, and the anarchy of the cultural revolution, when this beautiful area was polluted by pharmaceutical plants, paper mills and a shooting range of the People's Liberation Army.

Today, it is just a dirty tip as far as most Beijingers are concerned. Taxi drivers would rather endure the thick traffic of the fourth ring road than risk their suspension and their bodywork on the muddy, bumpy road.

But all this will change in the next three months. Chaoyang Park is spreading north as part of the city's beautification campaign for the 2008 Olympics. The grey hovels that were home to Mr Cui's clients will be replaced by green parkland, the dusty roads will become a sandy sporting venue.

Locals may grumble that they are being moved against their will into soulless high-rise blocks, but Mr Cui has a hairdresser's philosophy. Even if things don't turn out as you like, don't worry: it will grow back again. He is ready to move on.

"I'll find somewhere different to cut hair," he says. "There are always people who need a trim."