I hate getting my hair cut. Hate it. It’s a control thing. I have to sit in a seat and let someone else - someone I don’t know or trust - alter my appearance.
When I was a boy, my mum’s best friend was a hairdresser, so that was ok. We’d go over to her house, play with her kids, then we’d get called into her kitchen and have our hair cut. It was simple and it just happened and we knew it would be a reasonable approximation of a normal haircut.
Now? Now there are all sorts of variables. Barber or hairdresser. Town or suburb. Do you go somewhere you’ve been before, or risk a new place?
I go to a place in a nearby village. There are two women with thick Scouse accents and a tv that plays daytime telly (today: The Wright Stuff with the discussion topic “Should there be IQ tests for jurors?”). I sat by a gas heater and waited to be called up by the chirpy girl. She slots me in the seat and says “What do you want done?”
Here’s what I want done: I want shorter hair. That’s it. I have no preference beyond that. But I have to pretend I have a style and a “look” so I say “number 2 at the sides and back and cut short on top, please.” This is just a random confluence of words that I recognise as barbering terms. I don’t actually know what the result of this statement will be, apart from “your hair will be shorter”.
She starts brushing through my hair, untangling the knots. I have very thick hair, and I just brush it with my fingers, so it forms itself into a permanent wave across my face. As she yanks it apart, separating the strands, I start to feel anxious: is she going to talk to me? Is she going to ask questions? I look down so we don’t make eye contact - that way she might realise I’m shy, or just plain rude.
“Your hair’s pretty long, isn’t it? Do you normally have it this short?
“Yeah. It’s just been a while since it was last cut.” November 5th, to be exact, because I had to go through a really tedious conversation about Bonfire Night. I don’t tell her this, just inwardly cringe at her silent judgement.
Women barbers (barberellas?) are more attentive to you, and ask more questions. Is this long enough? Do you want it to fade into your sideburns? Square cut or tapered back? This is because women have been taught to care about their hair since an early age, and to embrace different styles and cuts. My answer to all these questions is “dunno”. I can’t tell if it’s long enough or too long until she’s done it. My sideburns usually disappear when I shave badly and accidentally make them lopsided. If it’s at the back of my head, I really don’t care, so long as she isn’t shaving WHITE PRIDE into my scalp.
(Male barbers, in my experience, don’t ask these questions, and just get on with it; however, they are also more prone to inappropriately sexist and racist conversation, and a barely veiled threat that they use their straight-edged razors to dispose of Mafia hitmen. They’re trying to show you that even though they’re in the beauty industry, they’re actually all men, and you’d best not forget it).
She hacks and slices at my hair, thankfully free of conversation (unlike at the next seat, where the hairdresser is talking about her forthcoming safari in Kenya), occasionally presenting elements for my approval. I nod, or happily confirm whatever she last said, not really knowing. She whips at the back of my neck with a brush and then shows me the details with a mirror. This would be a pointless enterprise at the best of times, but since I am chronically short sighted and my glasses are sat on the counter in front of me, she could be showing me a photograph of the Eiger and it would look the same. I nod anyway, and say “great, thanks”.
She pulls off the cloak and hands me the tissue that she’d tucked in the back of my collar. I have no idea what I am meant to do with this tissue. I shove it in my pocket, and forget about it, a hairy momento that I will discover in a couple of days time when I try to blow my nose on it and get a nasty surprise. It’s £7.50; I scrabble around, pull out £9, and hand it all over. That’s more than I would have tipped really, but I’d have felt cheap if I’d dropped a pound coin back in my pocket, so there you go.
Out into the street and the wind whips over my newly shorn scalp. I am relieved it’s all over. And still dreading having to do it again in a couple of months time.
