The Haircut
An impending meeting about my feature film script prompted me to overcome my hatred for having my hair cut. I entered my regular hairdressers, sub-standard in quality but very cheap.
I had grown out my last poor quality hair cut from the Polish hairdresser, who’s so dour she makes Jack Dee look cheery. My hopes that she wasn’t working were immediately dashed when I entered and saw her gloomy expression. I prayed that her more cheery colleague finished his haircut before her. He was well ahead, applying the finishing touches whilst she was still mid-way through hers. I pretended to read The Sun’s front page, whilst nervously monitoring the progress of their respective haircuts.
She was quickly catching up her colleague, who had been applying inconsequential snips for several minutes. She hastily butchered her poor patron’s hair, who like me could only watch in silent horror. Although impressed with the male hairdresser’s attention to detail, I wished he’d bloody get on with it. The lady finished first and bluntly asked if it looked “ok?” It didn’t look ok and I sensed her victim agreed with me. He meekly nodded as I had done 6 weeks ago, silently paid and exited. She was now motioning me towards this doomed seat.
I longed to ask to wait for the gentleman instead. I’m sure I’d seen this done before. But could I risk upsetting the feelings of this woman? Did she even have feelings? How would I word it? “I’m sorry you butchered my hair last time, and you seem to be even worse now.” I decided that I was going to overcome my English reserve and assert myself. Yes. I was going to do it!
I opened my mouth and found that somehow I was already sitting in her chair. Utterly dismayed I involuntarily blurted out “short back and sides please”. I didn’t even want a short back and sides! Desperate to assert some authority on this situation I asked her to at least put down her razor and cut my hair with scissors. She grunted and gripped the scissors with such ferocity I wondered if I’d walked into Sweeney Todd’s Fleet Street barbers and this lady was a Polish reincarnation of Mrs Lovett. I hoped I’d at least be fed a pie before having my throat slit.
I watched as she ignored my requests and gave me a crew cut as she’d done 6 weeks earlier. She made me explain my dead-job and flawed flat share situation, which destroyed my remnants of self-esteem. She mentioned that I was receding, to the amusement of the waiting patrons. Then she loudly chastised her last customer for not leaving a tip. The only tip I wanted to leave was “stop cutting hair” but I didn’t want to be slagged off to a room full of people. After meekly thanking her for the crew cut she’d branded me with I handed her the fee, including a £2 tip, and left.
I ordered a Flat White and a tap water in a nearby Costa to try to repair my bruised self-esteem. “Ice in the water?” barked the Barista. “No thanks… It’s cold enough already”, I said attempting small talk, which was either unheard or ignored. I sat down and happened to face a large mirror. Looking at my reflection I vowed to find a different salon next time, although in my heart I knew in 6 weeks’ time I’d visit the same place and receive another crew cut.
I sipped my Flat White and realised I’d been given an Americano instead. My mood deteriorated further.
Written by Martin Stocks
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