IN THE CHAIR OF THE DANDY HIGHWAYMAN

I opened the door of the barbers and stepped inside. The door tinkled behind me.

“Thanks for coming back,” said one of the barbers, scissors in hand. The mop-topped teen in front of him flicked eyes at me in the mirror. I nodded and sat down.

I have odd emotions about a haircut. Perhaps, you might say, that was the real reason I scuttled off to Costa: he doesn’t like getting a haircut; he doesn’t like people touching his head.

Well you’d be wrong - probably on both counts. I think it’s far more complex than that. I think on occasion I’ve very much liked it, and on more frequent occasions, I’ve found it weird and invasive.

Speaking of weird and invasive, as I sat down on the plush sofa I noticed the gent in the other barber’s chair had fully reclined his head back on the headrest, and was sporting long sticks in each of his nostrils. They stuck up into the air like the antennae of a giant insect.

The barber, masked like a dandy highwayman, narrowed his eyes in the mirror. His charge laid back nervously as the keen hairdresser quickly whipped out the plunger from each nostril. Talk about onomatopoeia! I’m sure the removal of each giant cotton bud made a sort of fshloop sound. It was probably my horrified imagination. Nostril waxing.

The guy sat up, twitched his nose, and couldn’t help smile at his own reflection - as though he’d just survived something traumatic and considered himself jolly lucky to be alive. The barber carefully adjusted the chair back to the correct angle.

I liked getting my hair cut two Septembers ago when I transformed from long hair to short; that was alright. Hacketts of Bath really treated me well, given I was quite nervous about it. But the few times I’ve been since have been a bit more basic, and a bit more predictable.

First of all the barber straps you into a smock and asks you what you want. Today I heard myself ask him just to tidy it up and keep it slightly longer on the top. He asked me what I meant by that, and I ran out of words.

Then, for the next twenty minutes while he pulls your head this way and that and buzzes in your ear like an angry wasp, you’re left with no other option than to stare into your own eyes and study your own goofy face. Gents, I bet the ladies are different, but if you’re like me, the chances are you spend less than three minutes a day confronted by your own ageing reflection. As a self-conscious introvert I find it excruciating having to study that image for an extended period of time.

Your emotions go through it too. Perhaps not so much these days (I mean there’s less to work with) but I remember the barber pulling my hair into the lousiest shapes in order to cut it. One minute it’s an embarrassing wet combover, the next he’s pulling it up into wild strands to snip a bit off between his fingers. Then he combs it down over your head and you are the least cool you’ve ever appeared. Plus the smock makes you look a bit like a vicar.

Today, he ruffled it as a proud aunty would, and my grey hair sprang up like wires. It always makes me wonder how they know what they’re doing - it must be a very fine art, a mysterious process into which I have entirely no desire to delve. Usually at the end, he sculpts it and it sort of looks okay.

Oh and young men, listen up, because honestly, there will come a day when (taken with a need you didn’t realise you’d ever have) the barber will, frankly, and without any warning whatsoever, run his clippers around your earholes. I kid you not. You’ll suddenly be deafened by the buzzer as it circles your ear, and you’ll know, in that great and terrible moment that, well, let’s just say the times, they are a changing.

There was a football match on today too. The little telly in the shop blared out the commentary of Kidderminster Harriers versus West Ham United in the FA Cup, and the other patrons in the shop oohed and ahhed as the action unfolded. I have no interest at all in Kidderminster Harriers, West Ham United or the FA Cup, but somehow having my head sculpted in a way that had locked my eyes forwards, I found myself infuriated that I couldn’t turn to watch. 

Once done, and dusted down, the barber pulls out his unique handheld mirror and shows you (from all available angles) the back of your head. I don’t think I’ve ever done anything at this point other than nod approvingly - though I’ve never been quite sure why.

Today, I paid, wished them all a good day and then headed out into the blustery street, letting the chilly wind play with that fresh-gel-and-raw-neck feeling.

“See you again!” said the barber just before the old-fashioned door jangled shut. I’m sure he will, just by the nature of things and the way hair grows on the human head. And in my ears.

Mainly though, I was thankful I hadn’t had the nostril waxing thing done. I mean, aren’t those hairs there for a reason? Aren’t they supposed to protect against colds and the flu virus? And doesn’t that just look silly, having those things wedged up your nostrils? It’s emotional enough getting your hair cut, without injecting that kind of nonsense into the process.