THE CHOP OF THE NEW

I am a creature of habit. 

I don’t like change and I don’t deal with it well. I get my hair cut at Larry’s Barber Shop on Montgomery Street, just off Elm Row, and I’ve been going there for years.

Recently I found myself in a predicament when the only day I could go was a Sunday and that’s the day that he’s closed. As I looked at my schedule I was only free on every Sunday for weeks, and I was long overdue a trim. What was I going to do?

What I like about Larry’s is the fact that I no longer have to go in and explain to him what I want; he just knows what to do. It’s the equivalent of walking into a pub and asking for ‘the usual’. In all honesty, I don’t even know if Larry is his name ... we don’t delve that deep into conversation. We mutter pleasantries, but small talk is kept to a minimum, just the way I like it. This is why I don’t want to go anywhere else as I don’t want to have to explain what I want done each time, and I really don’t want to go somewhere where the conversation could lead anywhere.

So what was I to do? Looking at most of the places in Broughton, they were either closed on a Sunday or were unisex hairdressers that promised a cut and a style. Just looking through the window of Art Haus on Broughton Street left me feeling like I was in the wrong town; they probably wouldn’t even let me through the door. It seemed like there was more emphasis on style than I had in mind, and they all seemed slightly out of my price band.

In the end I managed to find somewhere that suited my needs. London1 Turkish Barbers on Rodney Street was open on a Sunday, and they weren’t charging an arm and leg like a lot of the other local places. What could possibly go wrong? 

As I sat down in the chair, I explained what I wanted and decided to embrace this new experience. Things seemed to be going OK. For someone like me, it was a relatively painless process, until I was asked a question I hadn’t expected. 

‘Eyebrows? Would you like me to trim your eyebrows?’

Mortified, I muttered a ‘No, thank you’. 

Inside, I was thinking What’s wrong with my eyebrows?

The hairdresser gave me a wry smile. I could hear her thinking: Well if you’re sure you want to walk out with eyebrows like that, then you go right ahead.  

What she said was: ‘Would you like your ears flamed?’

Speechless, I declined with a kind of gurgle. I quickly paid and fled the shop, red in the cheeks but at least with my ears intact. I vowed never to go anywhere new again. Even now, I don’t know what flaming ears means and I’m happy not to find out.

Last month, I returned  to Larry’s. It was all very jovial. I was glad to be back. As I sat back in the chair, he looked down at me and asked, ‘Why don’t we try something different?  Have you ever thought about a David Beckham?’