Renaissance Man

The usual rituals at the airport. I pat down my pockets and regularly root through and re-sort the hastily printed off travel vouchers and boarding cards for the pre-flight stage. I have had use of the overnight hotel accommodation and car park documents and place these towards the bottom of the pile. In the middle somewhere are the A4 sheets for the transfer bus upon arrival in Italy and confirmation of the booking at the grandly named Atlantic Palace Hotel although I was not aware from my schoolboy geography that Florence had any view of an ocean at all.

I feel that I have the correct clothing for travelling and not likely to look too much out of place, or just English, when stepping onto foreign soil. Slight panic about the whereabouts of my Passport until I locate it in the folds of the daily paper stuffed into the outer pocket of the suitcase.

Everything is in order.

Then I catch a glimpse of a rather chubby man in the reflection from the shiny plate glass of the Bureau de Change. He is a bit awkward looking and dishevelled in his attire and could do with a haircut. Yes, the crumpled traveller is me and the one thing that I have not achieved in the days before the trip abroad is to get a haircut.

There had been a few opportunities to get one as the pressure to complete my outstanding work projects, buy some clothes, pack and generally prepare took up all potentially idle time.

The consequence; a rather floppy fringe, scruffily thinning at the top, sticky out sides and a lot of that embarassing wavy growth around the neck and ears, not to mention a slight tint of ginger in out of control eyebrows. Altogether a let down especially with all of the other effort and expense to look sophisticatedly European.

Any of the previous confidence in my sattire evaporates which I cannot say for the newly formed beads of perspiration emerging in a tickling sensation amongst that unruly mop of hair and accompanying sprouting. I am reduced to a state of hot and bothered from cool and nonchalant.

The tone for the trip to Italy appears well and truly set. Unless........if my recollections of stereotypical Italians is not mistaken they are pretty good at a lot of things such as cooking, ice cream making, singing, playing the mandolin, football, art and somewhere deep down in my memory, hairdressing.

I am not sure of the origins of this passing thought whether down to watching old movies, associating barbers with flair and panache which the Italians have more than their fair share of or if I actually used to frequent a salon owned and run by an Italian.

As the air nozzle above my aeroplane seat further agitates and ridicules my bad hair I hatch a plan to get it sorted at the first opportunity upon arrival in Florence. The possible risks of this intention which I cannot actually quantify will certainly be far outweighed by the peace of mind of a good haircut. I convince myself of this as I doze off to the constant drone of the aircraft engines somewhere over France and The Alps before the ear-popping descent into the regional airport at Pisa.

The hot conditions in the coach on the 80km journey to Florence reduce me to a large poached blob. There is no relief on stepping out into the midday sun of the Tuscan valley which cradles the River Arno and the narrow streets stacked with Medieval buildings. I bump my wheeled case down the steps of a subway which gives safe passage under the busy intersection of the city centre road network. The air is slightly cooler and I linger awhile which goes against the nature of most British people when forced to use a subway on home territory. The subterranean passage is actually broad and well lit and built into the walls are a series of lock up shop units with one being a barbers. The tariff displayed in the window does not exceed 20 Euros for anything listed in Italian which gives me some assurance of not blowing my holiday money on vanity. The small salon is empty of customers and I wander in.

The proprietor is what can be described as young and trendy. It is quickly established that we share no common language whatsoever. In fact we do not appear to have any shared experiences to draw on. I make an attempt at representing, in hand movements, the phrase "short back and sides, please" but this is met with the universal raised hand of incomprehension. There are no style magazines lying around for reference which I find a bit unusual. In spite of the barrier of nationality, age and everything else I am directed to take a seat and am quickly swathed in towels and an oversized bib.

The music is cranked up to blistering. I take this to be a combination of standard working practice and avoidance of any attempt at dialogue. The actions of the scissors are swift and skillful and I am reassured that the barber has served his time in a similar environment. A bit worrying is the firing up of the clipper shears and the attachment of what looks to be a number 2 or even a number 1 cutter. My lank hair falls in clumps onto the shop floor and I can see my scalp and the shape of my skull in the mirror. I am powerless to stop the routine that I have set in motion. A sharp blade is stuck onto the end of a Stanley Knife and in a scraping action any residual tufts are deftly removed.

In a  flamboyant fluorish I am informed that I am done.

My reticence and hesitation half way through appears foolish given that I have just had the best ever haircut in my life. I think ahead to my planned visit to the Galleria to see the sculpture of David by Michelangelo with a  determination to make a close study for the tell tale signs that my barber had some ancestors assisting in that great work of scale and art in some way.