It’s that dreaded time again where I need a haircut. This always gets left until absolutely essential (which is usually about two weeks after my girlfriend declares it absolutely essential).
My problem is that I fall somewhere between the barber end of the spectrum and the hairdresser end when it comes to my haircutting requirements. Essentially I want a good hair cut but don’t want to pay a lot for it.
I don’t have enough football-related banter to maintain the conversation with a barber. Don’t get me wrong, I love the footballs. And don’t even get me started on the offside rule. Plus I notice that most of the men coming in have shorter hair than I do when I leave. I’m not sure if this means I’m getting more for my money or they are.
At the other end of the spectrum I’m not all that comfortable with hairdressers. The kind of place where they take your name down when you come in. What kind of surveillance is this? What’s wrong with the system of sitting down in complete anonymity and knowing who’s before you? The simple camaraderie of not needing such formalities to ensure a fair service, instead just the simple question “who’s next?”.
I am not a man blessed with good hair. There, I’ve said it, it’s out there now. Except this is no secret, it’s abundantly obvious when looking at me. But this doesn’t stop people, particularly those charged with cutting it, from telling me so.
“You have really thick hair!” they say, as if this is news to me.
“Oh yeah, I know. You practically need a pair of hedge-clippers, right?” I say. Every time. Because if this is the level of their banter I don’t see why I should bring my A-game.
Living in a new area I don’t have a local barber. And with that local area being Shoreditch I’m not entirely sure I’m cool enough to just walk off the street and ask for “something less bowl-shaped”. Especially when I see the perfectly-coiffed people walking around.
I find a barber just off the Old Street roundabout which looks right for me. I sit down and join the queue, not needing to give over my name, national insurance number or inner leg measurement. Instead I just go up when it’s my turn.
The barber suggests I go for a scisssor-cut, instead of a standard clipper-cut. God, with this kind of technical jargon I fear I may be in over my head. But consdering that’s where my hair is I should be OK.
True to his word there’s a lot of scissor-work. And, based on the amount my neck is jarred around, a free chiropractic adjustment too. It takes much longer than I’m used to. But this isn’t some clipper-wielding hack. This is a professional. An artisan.
After around 40 minutes he’s finished, holds up the mirror for me and… my hair looks almost exactly the same as when he started. How that can be I don’t know. I can see the amount of hair that’s come off scattered around on the floor. I refuse to believe he’s spent the last half hour just sprinking someone else’s hair over me.
I once read that human hair is sometimes added to pizza bases to improve them – maybe my well-documented love of a good deep-pan has given my hair the ability to defy the scientlific principle of the conservation of matter. Infinitely regenerating hair. Doctor Do, if you will. Actually, I really hope you won’t.
He asks me what I think, and I really don’t know what to say. I have to be back at work in ten minutes, so I don’t have time for him to take more off. I just have to say it’s great, pay, and head back to the office.
I work in quite a laddy office, so the fact that none of them notice my new haircut is not all that surprising. However, I get home and the first thing my girlfriend picks up on is, of course, my hair.
“You really do need to get a haircut…”.
I don’t know why I bother.
photo credit: Wi2_Photography via photopin cc
