The gravity of having hair cut
ONE day last week I awoke looking like Einstein. But what would I look like by 10:30?
I got out of bed reluctantly. I knew I should be grateful. The whole nation was grateful. But for the first time in my life, I feared a trip to the barber.
For years a family friend had tended my thinning locks, but now her kindness was never more required. She had broken her wrist, which is why my wife had booked me in to a hairdresser’s salon.
I knew the place by sight. There were pictures of square-jawed teenagers on the windows all with their film star hairstyles. I’d always hurried past. Clearly not a place for the decrepit and the thin on top.
It was a swanky place, all tubular steel and black leather, and a bevvy of girls clearly entranced for a beauty contest, all glammed-up and snipping.
Then it was my turn. I put on a super manly voice. ‘Could you tidy me up please? Nothing fancy.’ The lady was most attractive. I closed my eyes as the operation began.
Not once did she ask me if I’d had my holidays. She never mentioned Blundell Park. From her standing position she surveyed my overgrown thatch and began mowing it.
She never mentioned the weather or the dreaded virus. I began to relax.
And when she’d done me, I glanced in the mirror. Einstein had gone. I was not a John Travolta or an Elvis. In fact, I looked more or less like I had done last year. Bliss. Why had I worried? Hairdressers, as you know, are psychologists.
I knew that but I’d forgotten. It was a joy to be reminded.