The First Cut is the Dearest...

So last week I woke up, as I do most days (touch wood) and found myself staring at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. Usually what is staring right back at me never tends to surprise me- as a matter of fact I have to admit that it’s a pretty accurate representation of what I look like. Though this time something was different. As my eyes started to gain focus I noticed something emanating from the back of my head; after ruling out the possibility of it being some kind of spout I realised it was in fact my hair. See I have this subconscious tick where I twist the hair on the top right part of my head. Usually it’s not particularly long but having not been to a hairdresser for a while, due to my investment in a hair-cloaking device (a ghetto fabulous hat), it had started to remain twisted and jut out. After 30 minutes of trying in vain to flatten it down with water and then (painfully) a comb, I reluctantly decided it was time I sought professional help. It’s not that I dislike hairdressers, nor do I think that the Sri Lankan floppy Afro is a good look, but because I find that hair salons are one of the most awkward places I’ve ever had to frequent.

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…

The Wrath of Venus

Last Saturday I was on the train into central London on my way to meet a friend. The train was busy but not excessively so; there was the odd free seat, some of which had turned into some kind of newspaper orgy spot, but there was still plenty of space to stand. So I’m on the end of one of the 5-seater rows next to one of the aforementioned tabloid “romps” (thus securing myself an arm rest and reading material) and across from me are a couple (probably both late 20s). A stop later, a mixed group of about 10 people get onto the train and are standing near the couple; they’re quite merry and as the train starts to set-off it jolts, sending the high-heeled members of the group stumbling over. One in particular is floor bound when the guy in the couple reaches out and grabs her to stop her hitting the deck. Flustered but grateful, the girl gets helped to her feet and thanks the man profusely and they exchange a few chuckles (I struggle to remember what exactly was said as I hadn’t stopped laughing by this point). Still grinning and obviously quite proud with himself, the man turns back to share the joke with his girlfriend... and is met by the mother of all evils. Words cannot describe the contempt contained in this stare; like if Darth Vader had just returned from a blind date with Kerry Katona only to find the Death Star had been towed and he’d forgotten his Oyster card.

Unfortunately I had to get off at the next stop but lord knows how that evening progressed. Having done something quite chivalrous for a stranger, one man was left dealing with an irate girlfriend (see Praying Mantis). The astonishing thing is that this happens to guys everywhere, in fact every 4 seconds a guy is judged by a woman (though the same woman is often imagined topless in this time). And frankly it’s not fair. This phenomenon is not just restricted to men receiving grief from their partners, it can often come from the person you are actually HELPING (as I found out a year ago...). Let me set the scene...

It’s your standard student night out (Wednesday to be exact) and it’s 1am - so about the time that people are hitting the strong stuff to push them through (and beyond) the social awareness barrier just in time for the Baywatch theme (scheduled for 1:43am). Basically the bar is packed. Having been here far too often I know the weak points of the bar so I get myself a decent spot as bar staff go back and forth serving people, in an order which is still yet to be determined. When I get to the bar I notice there is a brunette girl standing relatively near to me who appears to be losing it as people around her are getting served while she is being constantly ignored. I take pity on her and 10 minutes later one of the bar staff comes up to me asking what I want. Seeing my chance to put myself in contention for Mr Nice Bar-Guy 2007 (thus pitting my wits against guy-who-held-back-girl’s-hair-when-she-was-throwing-up-so-that-she-perhaps-would-maybe-touch-him-one-day) I proudly announce;

“Sorry mate but I think she was here before me...”

Her face breaks into a reluctant smile and she gives the barman her request and then turns to me and offers a,

“Thanks.”

Knowing that the barman would be a couple of minutes with her drink I figured I’d indulge in some light conversation;

“Yeah I hate it when that happens. I’m tempted to invest in a big neon sign to bring out...”

She then smiles, turns to me and says...

“I’m sorry I’ve got a boyfriend.”

........

I actually waited for a good minute in case she followed up with, “... and he’s selling HIS neon sign; £50 or nearest offer.”

Needless to say it didn’t come, and she paid for her drinks and walked past me, in a way that gave me the impression that she thought I might mount her. I did a nice thing for this girl, who was clearly peeved off at the fact that the bar staff were constantly ignoring her, and yet it’s more or less thrown in my face. This feeling of frustration was compounded when the barman went on to serve someone else next...

IS it really the case that we, of the XY clan, are the manic sex-craving douche-bags that our female counterparts take us for? Don’t get me wrong we’ve all been on enough nights out to realise that there are some guys who will dry hump anything their crotch bounces off of (a manoeuvre not just reserved for women, male friends in the vicinity will also suffice). I’m just glad I didn’t ask for her name, I’ve heard mace stings.

Sometimes words don’t even have to be spoken in order to bear the brunt of a blind rejection; a few years ago in a pretentious club far, far away a group of about 10 of us were waiting at the bar for a mate of ours to join us. He spotted us from the other side of the dance floor and made his way through the slow-dancing minors. Right on the edge of the dance floor there was a pillar which meant he would have to squeeze past a group of girls trying to perfect the latest dance move (I want to say the Cha Cha Slide). He politely excused himself through the majority of them and as he put his arm on the shoulder of the girl closest to the edge to ebb past her, she turned around and gave a smug, over-pampered glare and sniggered,

“Look yeah I’ve got a boyfriend.”

To which he replied;

“That’s nice; I’m just trying to get past to see my friends. (Points her in our direction. We wave, she cringes) Say hello to your boyfriend for me!”

Is it an egotistical thing? Are there girls out there who really feel that they are so desirable that every guy who approaches them every day just wants to get into their unmentionables? Probably, yes.

If we look back at the train debacle, the girlfriend clearly holds the man in high regard as she decided to go out with him; she trusts him, she thinks he’s not a tool and is attracted to him on a few levels. Helping the girl who was in the process of losing a tooth should surely highlight the fact that this guy has some sort of decency and his split second instinct was to help rather than to contemplate helping. Commendable, surely?

It could’ve been the case that she thought the girl was making moves on her man after he saved her; it’s not unknown that the majority of women hate a large majority of women. Reasons can range from anything such as similar shopping habits, to the general “skankiness” of a fellow female. With so much distrust flying about inter/intra-sexes one thing is always sure; men cannot be trusted.

We can’t help it; women will forever think the worst of us- whether it’s holding a door open for them, or subsequently following them in (for the record, I thought the changing rooms were unisex and I hate wearing ill-fitting scarves).

"I Don't know if you've heard but I've done over a thousand...'

Dear All,

I've decided to start a blog to chronicle random thoughts/occurrences I come across throughout my current life as an unemployed wanna-be writer/reluctant engineer. I can't say that I've researched too much into this medium although a friend of mine insisted that I should refrain from writing about pets or hobbies (I say insist, it was more of an ultimatum; one where he would be obliged to thump me).

But as it is I have neither a hobby nor a cat whose purr is worse than its saunter so I’m good for now. I wouldn’t describe myself as an angry person but every now and again I’ll come across something that would instantly make me question the presence or reasoning behind it. Having spent the better part of my teenage years as a coy ‘yes-man’ I seem to have a build-up of angst and a bitter outlook on life. Don’t get me wrong I don’t hate my life nor do I think I am unlucky in any way but more and more, as I enter my mid-twenties, I find myself becoming acutely aware of insolence around me.

For instance, a year ago I met a guy at University who when asked ,by a friend of mine, what he did back home informed us that he couldn’t tell us because he worked for the Singapore Secret Service and thus top-secret.

Just the 2 things about that...

a) Those at the Singapore Secret Service may have an inkling that such a statement could potentially blow your cover &
b) At the very least one would expect a cover story

Everyone’s prone to a white lie or two but talk of being some sort of International Man of Mystery; what is this primary school?

At the very least he could’ve combined the two and given a cover story with uncomfortable pauses and sufficient plot-holes to give off a sense of ambiguity and bullshit. But our I.M.o.M just wasn’t having it; it’s the equivalent of shouting a cumulative tally of the number of reps you have done while on a gym machine and then starting at yourself in the mirror afterwards – no one believes you, no one could really give a shit and you look like a tool (NOTE; try to avoid going into the changing room when said man is about – struts about nude as if he’s doing us a service and uses his towel like floss).

On a lighter note, a man knocked on my door today (Friday) at 1:30pm to preach the word of God. His opening pitch was,

“I’m sorry I don’t mean to disturb you, I’m sure you are very busy
given that you are at home during the day but I was just wondering if I
could give you this leaflet about the Afterlife and what prospects it could
have for you.”

Sarcasm is never the best way to sell Timeshares on the banks of the River Styx to an unemployed Hindu.