My youth was spent sporting a number 4 all over- nothing fancy, lawnmower treatment, 20 minutes, done. Getting my haircut tended to be a family event with my dad, my brother and I heading to this one barbers around 20 minutes away from our house. It wasn’t the closest barbers but the fact that they were run by a pair of brothers from India had my dad sold (the “Brown Factor”). They were quite an eccentric pair sporting floppy black hair and tight Levi jeans, and always spoke in a very matter of fact way about how this was merely a hobby after their youths spent enjoying themselves in India – very Mumbai Vice. Occasionally they would give suggestions on how I could look “cool” and attract all the ladies by shaving the sides of my head shorter than the top. I left that day a 13 year-old with a false sense of hope and exposed temples- all I needed now was a can of Lynx and a box of Milk tray and I was set. Eventually I got bored of the hour long round trips and casting careful glances at last months Page-3 model and purchased my own set of clippers. After a few teething problems I was consistently cutting my own hair to the distress of those sharing a bathroom with me. People would always try and encourage me to grow my hair but I often dismissed this as I was well aware of how ridiculous my microphone head would look if it was given time to flourish. On occasions that I would let my hair grow for an extra few weeks it would start to get quite bouncy. During a particularly inane Latin double-lesson, one of my friends observed that I was able to balance pens and pencils on it. The longer it grew, the bigger the stationery; from pens and pencils to staplers and folders – thus “The Amazing Balancing Head” was born. To me, my friends’ insistence to let my hair grow out just meant that they had set their sights on bigger and better things to balance on my head and frankly I had to nip it in the bud before someone (namely me) got hurt.
About 4 years ago one of my friends was emigrating down under and begged, for one last time, to let my hair grow. I succumbed to the emotion of the situation and decided to give it a go. At first it was fine; my head was warmer, I was flirting with different types of hair products and I had a new point of vanity. And then came my first post No.4 hair cut…
Up until this point I had never ventured into a modern hair salon. The hub of creative and vibrant twenty-somethings would surely have turned their noses up at my under-whelming follicle exploits but now one of them had their chance to be part of history (in my life anyway). I called in and booked an appointment, which was later confirmed by text; I would be with Katrina…
On entering the salon I was greeted by the most veneered of smiles and told that Katrina would be along shortly and that I should take a seat. I was too excited to read the latest edition of Vogue, The Sun was nowhere to be seen; this truly was a magical place. And in she came; she looked like an extra from the video of the latest trance/dancehall anthem sweeping the iPods of Eurotrash everywhere (or at the very least a cover-girl for Ibiza Anthems). She introduced herself as the “Stylist” (a contemporary Geisha) and took me over to the seat and then proceeded to give me, what seemed to be, a pitch worthy of the Dragons Den.
First she was going to thin out the top of my hair and then hack into it to give it a bit of texture. Having done this she would then trim the sides and then shave the excess so that she could blend it in and then would proceed to clean up the back. I couldn’t be sure, but I THINK I was going to get a hair cut, or quite possibly, minor surgery. Either way I was excited.
So far so good, until the cutting actually took place. We started chatting (it took me a while to get started seeing as there was an attractive woman waving about what looked to be extravagant crocodile clips, a fantasy which had long since died since I ditched Physics at GCSE). Between wincing and grimacing I managed to maintain some type of decent conversation, though after a while I started to notice a subtle change in the tone of her voice. The more I spoke the more she seemed to be uneasy (at this point I was totally oblivious to the parameters of the hairdresser-client relationship). But, as it happens, after a basic interlude of your future plans (usually the upcoming weekend) the chat must then come to an eventual halt. I realised at that point that I had been asking questions as well as answering them, questions like,
“How long have you wanted to be a hairdresser for?”
and
“What’s your favourite thing about hairdressing?”
would have probably cropped up sounding drenched in irony. It was at this point that I started actually listening to what she was saying. She was going on about her 6 foot-5, former Rugby playing boyfriend whom she had been going out with for 3 years and went on to inform me that she goes for tall, athletic guys… something told me that she thought I was making a pass at her… I promptly shut up and let her get on with the rest of the job before she felt the need to inform me that she had a rape alarm.
At the end she held up a mirror so I could get a look at the back of my head…too short. Brilliant. It wasn’t as if I could say to her that she had cut it too short (despite pointing out that I don’t like it too short at the back). What could I say? Other than, “Yep that’s fine.” Like the first house party you go to as a 14/15 year old; you walk over to the booze table, pick up THAT can of Stella and take your first few sips of many and release a gentle yet audible sigh, as if it were a refreshing taste- wanting to save face in front of your mates that it’s something you’ve been missing all week because you’ve had a rough time putting the finishing touches on your book report for “Of Mice and Men”.
“Yeah that’s the good stuff… (Looks at can) 1336, good year for beer that.”
Lord knows you don’t what to be the square that says no to beer, even if it does taste like fizzy piss.
I don’t want to make out to this woman that I don’t really like my trendy £35 hair cut and be met by boos from the hip and trendy around me tutting with their skinny jeans and unnecessary piercings. “Go home Grandad”, they say while surfing MySpace searching for unknown bands and longing for unprotected sex. I can be cool. I must be cool.
“Yeah I really like that, cheers – like the way you’ve given it a bit of character at the back”
I am so cool.
Since then I’ve grown a pair and found round-a-bout ways of telling “Stylists” that I want something done differently – I can’t say my demands are always met enthusiastically but at the end of the day they’d want people to be seen leaving their salon looking better than how they walked in (random digression – isn’t it weird to think that the best hairdresser in the world will never have the best hair? Given potential rivalries between such Stylists they probably won’t even have the 2nd or 3rd best hair cut…and now we’re back).
Since that fateful afternoon I’ve dabbled with different hairdressers (as a result of being back and forth between home and University and not wanting to break the £30 mark again) and have met some relatively interesting characters along the way. One of the salons near my house is located in a shopping centre and is run by an Arabic man. My brother has gone to him a few times and says he’s not too bad but is cheaper and, given my financial situation at the time, I decided to give it a go. I walked in as he was just finishing off with someone’s hair whilst talking to what turned out to be his cousin. Having finished with the first customer he then sits me down in the chair and informs me that he has to pop out but that his cousin will be able to cut my hair. He mutters something in Arabic and hands over to him. By this point I’m almost fluent in salon-jargon so I tell the guy that I’d like the top thinned out a little because it gets too bushy and that I’d like the sides trimmed down and faded into the top. He stares at me blankly, gestures with his hand and utters,
“You want cut yes?”
Fantastic… he must’ve been merely hours off the boat and yet here I am, entrusting him with a rusty pair of scissors. I watch on as my hair is taken apart like it’s wronged him in some way. What makes it worse was that it was the middle of July and being inside a dingy barbers within a shopping centre meant that it was hot and humid. This coupled with my insatiable desire to sweat rivers meant that I was soaking up whilst being assaulted by a burly Arab man. On noticing that I was struggling a bit with the heat he then takes the water spray and starts spraying me in the face between periods of cutting my hair. So now I have diluted sweat running into my eyes at a faster rate whilst also having discarded hair stuck to my face and neck. Though no awkward chat, so every cloud…
Cutting hair must be quite a unique job; whilst the mirror is there to aid you, I’m sure it’s off putting watching someone follow your every movement whilst trying to do your job. No doubt you get used to it pretty quickly but one mistake and you have an angry customer and/or part of their ear. I've had four years of getting my hair cut in salons and I’ve still yet to devise the perfect routine for a polite, forgettable chinwag but I do feel I am getting better. That being said my propensity to be awkward and spout gibberish should never be underestimated…
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