A Cut Above

The prospect of going for a haircut is, today, both pleasurable and therapeutic. A nice calm and subdued atmosphere, subtle lighting, background music by original artists and  

the frequent offering of quality refreshments. A very far cry from my childhood experiences of getting a haircut. The title of hairdresser was then strictly reserved for a ladies salon, either blue rinse or ridiculously expensive. In those days the Male Barber ruled supreme.

Of course, the first generation of haircuts were done at home. My mother’s dressmaking scissors, sharp and pointy, were ideally made for a good trim. She was very steady handied but we were still a bit nervous and excitable at the prospect of the dreaded instrument. It’s emergence usually signaled a return to school after the holidays or as a pre-cursor to some family event. The scissors were soon to be replaced by a hand held electric macerator type comb, made I think by Phillips, Morphy Richards or Remington. This was a one action, unisex piece of equipment. The hair was thinned out in the combing action but with no concessions at all to style. Standing in school assembly and looking around it was clear whose parents were advocates of the comb-cut. If the respective offspring actually stood together we looked very much like those children in the Midwitch Cuckoo film or the  illegitimate children of 1970’s Commander Straker from TV’s UFO series.

My first visit to a barber, that I remember, was to Harry Westcott’s in the small market town in Lincolnshire where we lived. Authentic striped pole outside which, after being told of the origins of this symbol, did not really instill confidence in the visit. The external appearance of the barbers shop was seedy and not dissimilar to the ‘Private Shops’ that still survive in the downmarket areas of most cities. The display window, internally boarded, was usually full of dead flies, the faded packaging of Brylcream pots and a small golden coloured advertisement sticker for something called ‘Durex’. There was no view into the barber shop from the street as though it was firmly off limits to wives and girlfriends. An inner sanctum of male exclusivity. The red vinyl tile floor was heavily scuffed and worn and, of course, hairy. Sweeping up was very infrequent if at all. More red vinyl, this time the soft upholstered type, on bench seating to two sides of the dingy room and a rickety old coffee table with an untidy pile of newspapers and magazines, all very much out of date. Harry was a smoker and rarely removed his fag from his face even when attending to a customer. The proximity of his cigarette to the highly flammable hairprays and colognes was startling. The usual Saturday morning visit was always the busiest time and I had to wait amongst the old men, those of younger age preparing themselves for and anticipating a night out on the town ahead and reluctant , parentally attended  youths. This exposed me to the worst aspects of congregating men. Crude humour, crude racial humour, the use of the ‘f’ word in the place of the word ’very’, colossal flatulence, disparaging remarks about someone referred to as ‘er indoors’ and from time to time the appearance of a face at the door enquiring about ‘something for the weekend.’. When it was my time to be seen to I was lifted up into the dentist-style hydraulic chair and sat on a wooden booster seat.A grubby statically charged nylon sheet draped around me and then the haircut done with no reference to me or the wishes of my mother as to what was required. A kids haircut was a kids haircut and definitely a loss leader for Harry as there was no prospect for the cross selling of ancient grooming products or prophylactics. The treat however was being asked if, at the end of the cut, I wanted some spray on it. This came from a chrome sphere with a rubber ball and pipe attachment which, when pumped by Harry , sent a fine aerated flume of scented fluid all over my hair, face and down my neck. I hoped that it was not largely alcohol based given the nearby glowing ember of Harry’s fag end. In one moment of distraction Harry actually knicked my ear with his scissors. Blood loss was major and dramatic. Calmly, as though this was a regular occurrence Harry reached for his handy styptic pen and a rather faded but obviously red stained cloth to stem the flow. One wag, waiting on the bench seating remarked that perhaps Harry could wrap it up for me and I could take the almost severed organ home.

I graduated in my early teenage years to my mother’s hairdresser who had a salon just off the town centre. A more genteel atmosphere but equally traumatic for a pubescent lad in the realm of mature women. The main source of my anxiety was the salon owner, the head stylist. She was a large lady in all departments. In the 1970’s the Kaftan was in vogue and this enfolded her ample proportions but with very little left to the imagination of a teenage boy. Floating around the chair I was conscious of her large breasts brushing against me. I was festooned in an atmosphere of perfume. I would blush uncontrollably usually in tandem with perspiration to my forehead and nose and being tongue tied. If she remarked that I looked a bit hot that only served to open up the pores. If I was sat near the shop front window I could easily cause it to steam up. I feared spontaneous combustion was imminent. There was very little common ground on which to base a conversation and the silence for the duration was equally awkward. This was multiplied many times if, as it invariably was, the salon was busy. Head down I would grunt approval of whatever haircut I had received, hand over my £2 and wait until well down the street before checking its appearance in the reflected image from a shop or office window.

I still do not look forward to getting a haircut. The time for a haircut is the subject of strong hints and remarks about my very unkempt and poorly groomed appearance by my wife and children. I, however, am waiting for the Mad Professor look to come back into fashion but find that with my bald patch winning the battle for the top of my head I require less and less time in the Barber’s chair. There are certainly some economies in a dwindling hairline.