I went to have my hair cut this morning. I'd thought my hair was fine, but the discovery of a mullet in its infancy soon shocked me into action.
I read that the origins of the word barber lie in the Latin word "barba", meaning "beard". This is all very strange because I don't have a beard. Stranger still, I discovered that in times gone by barbers used to perform surgery and dentistry. While the idea of a quick trip to the barbershop for a short back and sides, root canal procedure and cyst removal seems good in theory, having seen my barbers go about their work, I am a touch sceptical.
I opened the barbershop door and walked in, nodding gently at the owner cutting the hair of another customer. My amiable gesture was greeted with not the slightest hint of recognition of a customer of several years' standing. The barber stared at me blankly.
I took my seat in the waiting area and looked on at the selection of tabloid newspapers and lads magazines. The discovery of any one of these publications in my house would inevitably lead to a moral ear-bashing from the wife (I feel a headache coming on from the very thought of it.) I picked up a three day old copy of The Sun – I was living on the edge - and began to study the Pulitzer Prize-quality journalism. I was very quick to skip past page 3 in case someone from church walked past the barbershop window and glanced in.
One of the barbers finished cutting the hair of a customer and accepted payment. She then turned and asked to those of us sat in the waiting area, "Who's next?"
In unison, all four blokes (me included) looked up from our literature with puzzled expressions on our faces and started looking around meekly whilst shrugging our shoulders. This was all part of the barbershop customary ritual - for every guy who walks into that shop surreptitiously studies every other guy sat in the waiting area to determine his turn to sit in the hydraulic chair. As other guys arrive after us, we eye them suspiciously. If a stare could say, "don’t even think about trying to get your mop chopped before your turn", this was it. Consequently, we all knew who's turn it was and when.
After a few moments of seeming confusion, I confidently stood up and took my place in the chair. I briefly explained how I would like my hair cut and then sat in silence whilst the blonde female barber started chopping away with the scariest pair of scissors I had ever seen.
I always admire those individuals who sit in the barbershop chair and chat away effortlessly. I just normally sit in silence, occasionally trying the art of small talk:
"Have you got any holidays planned this year?", I ask.
"Yeah. I'm going to Tenerife for a fortnight in August."
Of course she is going to Tenerife for a fortnight in August – this is the same person answering the same question I asked when I was in the barbershop six weeks ago. You see, I have the standard list of questions I work through in the barbershop as I don't know what else to say. A similar thing happens to me when I'm in a taxi –
"What time are you working until tonight?"
"Are there many fares around tonight?" [see – I even know taxi driver lingo!]
"What time did you start working?"
Once I'd exhausted my questions, the silence resumed.
What seemed like several hours later, but may have been three minutes, the barber asked, "shall I straighten your sideburns?" I nodded apprehensively and looked on at the mirror as, in slow motion, the barber replaced my trendy, long sideburns with those belonging to Dr. Spock. "NOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!", I cried out as parts of my cheek which hadn't seen sunlight for years were awoken from their slumber. Ok, I didn't cry out, I only thought that.
As she finished, the barber waved a small rectangular mirror behind me so that I could see the job she'd done on the back of my head. For a second, my heart stopped as I thought I saw a crown that resembled more Friar Tuck than the full head of hair I thought I had. Thankfully, it was a cruel trick of the light.
I stood up and vigorously scrubbed my forehead with a tissue offered by the barber to remove the loose hair that stuck to me. It seemed to add more hair than it removed. I walked over to the cash register and parted with £8.00 plus £1.00 tip (I am never sure whether you're meant to tip a barber but do anyway since they wield such scary scissors) and grabbed my jacket and left.
As I walked out on to the street, I looked back and admired the candy stick barber's pole reaching into the sky. I reflected on how the barbershop, this most ancient of professions in modern life, is a place where the past meets the present. It's a place where scissors (an instrument little changed since 1500 BC) lie next to styling products which benefit from more scientific research than the Apollo space missions and the Manhattan Project combined.
OK, I admit I didn't think that as I left. I actually think how bloody cold the air feels on the sides of my face once warmed by my dearly departed sideburns. Live long and prosper.
I read that the origins of the word barber lie in the Latin word "barba", meaning "beard". This is all very strange because I don't have a beard. Stranger still, I discovered that in times gone by barbers used to perform surgery and dentistry. While the idea of a quick trip to the barbershop for a short back and sides, root canal procedure and cyst removal seems good in theory, having seen my barbers go about their work, I am a touch sceptical.
I opened the barbershop door and walked in, nodding gently at the owner cutting the hair of another customer. My amiable gesture was greeted with not the slightest hint of recognition of a customer of several years' standing. The barber stared at me blankly.
I took my seat in the waiting area and looked on at the selection of tabloid newspapers and lads magazines. The discovery of any one of these publications in my house would inevitably lead to a moral ear-bashing from the wife (I feel a headache coming on from the very thought of it.) I picked up a three day old copy of The Sun – I was living on the edge - and began to study the Pulitzer Prize-quality journalism. I was very quick to skip past page 3 in case someone from church walked past the barbershop window and glanced in.
One of the barbers finished cutting the hair of a customer and accepted payment. She then turned and asked to those of us sat in the waiting area, "Who's next?"
In unison, all four blokes (me included) looked up from our literature with puzzled expressions on our faces and started looking around meekly whilst shrugging our shoulders. This was all part of the barbershop customary ritual - for every guy who walks into that shop surreptitiously studies every other guy sat in the waiting area to determine his turn to sit in the hydraulic chair. As other guys arrive after us, we eye them suspiciously. If a stare could say, "don’t even think about trying to get your mop chopped before your turn", this was it. Consequently, we all knew who's turn it was and when.
After a few moments of seeming confusion, I confidently stood up and took my place in the chair. I briefly explained how I would like my hair cut and then sat in silence whilst the blonde female barber started chopping away with the scariest pair of scissors I had ever seen.
I always admire those individuals who sit in the barbershop chair and chat away effortlessly. I just normally sit in silence, occasionally trying the art of small talk:
"Have you got any holidays planned this year?", I ask.
"Yeah. I'm going to Tenerife for a fortnight in August."
Of course she is going to Tenerife for a fortnight in August – this is the same person answering the same question I asked when I was in the barbershop six weeks ago. You see, I have the standard list of questions I work through in the barbershop as I don't know what else to say. A similar thing happens to me when I'm in a taxi –
"What time are you working until tonight?"
"Are there many fares around tonight?" [see – I even know taxi driver lingo!]
"What time did you start working?"
Once I'd exhausted my questions, the silence resumed.
What seemed like several hours later, but may have been three minutes, the barber asked, "shall I straighten your sideburns?" I nodded apprehensively and looked on at the mirror as, in slow motion, the barber replaced my trendy, long sideburns with those belonging to Dr. Spock. "NOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!", I cried out as parts of my cheek which hadn't seen sunlight for years were awoken from their slumber. Ok, I didn't cry out, I only thought that.
As she finished, the barber waved a small rectangular mirror behind me so that I could see the job she'd done on the back of my head. For a second, my heart stopped as I thought I saw a crown that resembled more Friar Tuck than the full head of hair I thought I had. Thankfully, it was a cruel trick of the light.
I stood up and vigorously scrubbed my forehead with a tissue offered by the barber to remove the loose hair that stuck to me. It seemed to add more hair than it removed. I walked over to the cash register and parted with £8.00 plus £1.00 tip (I am never sure whether you're meant to tip a barber but do anyway since they wield such scary scissors) and grabbed my jacket and left.
As I walked out on to the street, I looked back and admired the candy stick barber's pole reaching into the sky. I reflected on how the barbershop, this most ancient of professions in modern life, is a place where the past meets the present. It's a place where scissors (an instrument little changed since 1500 BC) lie next to styling products which benefit from more scientific research than the Apollo space missions and the Manhattan Project combined.
OK, I admit I didn't think that as I left. I actually think how bloody cold the air feels on the sides of my face once warmed by my dearly departed sideburns. Live long and prosper.
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