Barber predicament offers no Satisfaction...
IWOULD call in the barber’s shop on my way home from school and envy Teddy Boys who asked for a DA. I would even envy my father, for goodness sake, because he had been an RAF Brylcreem boy in the war and had hair that swept back in waves as dark as the North Sea.
I envied anybody who had an identifiable style because it meant they belonged. I didn’t have an identifiable style, unless short back and sides counted. I didn’t even know what DA stood for but suspected it was a codeword for male bonding, much like “something for the weekend, sir?” I didn’t know what that meant, either.
When Dave eventually told me what DA meant, I couldn’t stop laughing. The description and hairstyle came from America, of course, and meant ducktail or, in the vernacular, a duck’s bottom.
Quite appropriate for Teds, I thought, although I didn’t mention it to them out loud.
I was 16 when hair became important as a fashion statement and at last found my identity: I was a teenager. I also stopped going to the usual barber because my girlfriend Pat started cutting my hair.
My hair is now Unconfined as well as Unleashed in capital
letters
She cut it very short and close to the scalp in a style that would have passed the entrance exam for the Foreign Legion without a second glance. For the first time in my life, I looked hard enough to come with a warning. In French.
My French Connection was boosted when I acquired a girlfriend who lived in Paris, and a fondness for Edith Piaf records and Disque Bleu cigarettes.
As Pat was no longer available to cut my hair, it grew fashionably long just as the Beatles took centre stage. John, Paul, George and Ringo made long hair acceptable, while the Rolling Stones offered the alternative version of Hair Unleashed. Mine has been Unleashed ever since.
I am now at the sort of age that should at least reserve me a grocery delivery slot sometime before Bonfire Night, but so far hasn’t. My hair is now Unconfined as well as Unleashed in capital letters.
I last visited Tracey’s of Honley in December, when stylist Jade cut it with such flare you couldn’t tell her scissors had ever been in a hirsute conflict zone, even though there were enough fallen locks to stuff a cushion. I have been unable to visit the salon since, first because of sciatica, and latterly because of self isolation.
I might just as well promise to get my hair cut when a supermarket gives me a delivery slot. I’m aiming for November but think that might be a tad optimistic. In the meantime, it’s getting longer by the week. Forget the Stones, by November I’ll look more like Cousin It.