Prior to this move, I was supposed to have a haircut but the appalling weather put a stop to that as I couldn’t get out of the drive let alone the 7 miles to the hairdressers (the young lady who used to do my hair had by the way a fabulous head of dark red hair and would have graced James picture file).
Even cancelling was not an option as the phone rang and rang and I can only presume the staff could not get in to work.
So now ensconced in the new abode and and a week and a half on from my cancelled appointment I needed a trim – at least – post haste.
Not knowing anywhere in the area and being too busy and too tired to go looking I espied only a hundred yards away from my house a very modern looking barbers shop, told the wife who said why don’t you give it a go as it looks all right and if you’re not happy, look for somewhere else later, all good sense so as it said outside ‘no appointment necessary’ came the afternoon, I crossed the road and made my way to the aforementioned barbers shop, support a dying breed I thought in this world of unisex establishments.
Before going on I must mention that my hair is almost the last thing (no it is the last thing) that has still got something going for it on a body that has reached that stage that when you look in the mirror you see your father staring back and pretend you’ve had a senior moment.
The hair, despite a change of colour since my youth, is still thick, no bald patches and not much evidence of recession, all good.
The entrance I repeat was smart modern and welcoming, opening the door and entering was the equivalent of Alice through the looking glass, the single chair with the barber cutting a clients hair was a familiar sight but the worn sofas and being greeted by the owners large and very friendly dog who got up to come across and say hello in a room that apart from the chair looked like someone’s back parlour was not.
After being greeted by man and dog I sat down in one of the well worn sofas and waited whilst the incumbent of the chair was finished and it was my turn.
I think my first worries this might not have been such a good idea came when the protective gown was produced, not of a type I had seen before, black and made of a material that had a covering of a sort of plastic used on mortuary garbs – it didn’t bode fair.
The barber, to be fair, was friendly in the way barbers are you know – weathers still bad – you’re new are you, local etc – and then hopes rising again asked me what sort of cut I wanted and how do you normally have it cut.
Not wanting to be demanding and playing safe, I asked for a trim (can’t be safer than that ! ) and said I normally have the sides and back layered up with scissors and just keep it simple.
Fine he said and before I could protest was running the most enormous clippers up the back of my head proclaiming he could produce the same effect this way, after the first pass all was lost so I endured the next few minutes and wondered as my hair was reduced to a number one or that’s what it looked like to me.
If this was a trim, what was a a normal haircut? Other enquiries followed as to how I would like certain sections of my scalp “fashioned” and all requests were treated with the same disdain whilst the conversation about weather, parking, pensions sailed endlessly on great chunks of my hair hitting the floor.
Finally it was all over. I paid and left, noting the dog had a beautiful coat, something I could now envy and returned home entering the kitchen my wife without turning round said – everything go well – then turned looked and burst out laughing.
The only comforting remark I got was – it will grow back eventually – and then she burst out laughing again.