Hair-larious
// February 17th, 2009 // oddities
I went to the barbers today. I go to a highly rated barbers, Metro magazine for example, said it was the best Barbers in Auckland, 2006. It’s in the basement of a little building next to a gym, next to Victoria Park, next to the motorway, next to my office. I imagine some people are happy, excited even when they’re walking down the steps from the street to the basement of Metro magazines best barbers in Auckland, 2006. I’m not one of those people…
I’d rather sit in the electric chair than the barbers chair. When I sit in the barbers chair, under their excellent lighting I feel exposed. Since my last visit I’ll have constructed a large wall of denial about my hair loss brick by brick, day by day. When I return to the barbers this wall comes a tumbling down, upon my bald head.
Under inferior light, away from the discerning eye of a professional coiffeur, I can lie to myself – “Hey good looking.” “Ignore the naysayers, at the top there, its growing back thicker than ever.” “You’ve years left yet with that rad buffon” “Why look how thick that tangled mess is, that’s practically a jewfro.” Denial is a wonderful, wonderful thing and I highly recommend it. Barbers are denial killers. Each time I go I notice they use the scissors less and less. Now they don’t even get them out until the very end, and then its just a token gesture they cut nothing with them but my fragile self-confidence.
You’d think that with the combination of baldness, superior lighting and coiffeur professionals I’d have enough to worry about when I make my bi-monthly, hesitant trip to the Barbers. You’d be wrong. I also have an irrational fear of queue jumpers sneaking in line and taking my spot in the denial killers chair. And when you frequent Metro Magazines top Auckland Barber 2006 you can expect queues.
Perhaps this irrational fears comes from my inner Englishman. I try to keep it hidden. Sure I’m holding open a copy of Top Gear magazine, pretending to thumb through a fascinating feature on car type stuff, engine velocity throughput performance thingys, but, here is the sneaky part – I’m not reading it! Not even slightly! I couldn’t have less interest in cars. Instead its just a disguise to make me appear normal. I don’t even look at the pages. I’m actually scanning the other waiting people looking for signs that they might be about to move – move into my spot
I’ve been known to forget my reading ruse all together and without noticing I’m doing it, I’ll roll up my magazine up ready to be used as a primitive swatting weapon for an attack on any would be queue jumpers. Were someone so much as to turn their wrist to check the time at the wrong moment – Whack, they’ll feel the power of my internal v8 engine when they get a short, sharp visit from Jeremy and co – right to the forehead. Oh yes. Sit back down motherfucker, this balding man was here first.
The most crucial time is when it appears the man in the chair is just about finished, and you are next. You’ll notice because the barber will spray some water shit in the air, no-one know why, then he’ll put down the scissors and get out a brush. A few quick strokes and the brush goes down and the mirror comes out. This is your window. You’re a monkey in a pack of monkeys and the alpha monkey just showed weakness. The bosses seat is about to become free, you need to make your move. Move too early and the spot won’t be free and you’ll be visible in that mirror looking like the Barber stalker, no-one likes the Barber stalker, move too late and you’ll have to fight challengers for the throne. The key is to signal your intent early, this scares off other ambitious monkeys and lets everyone know how this is going to play out. My technique is to use the magazine, make a very dramatic exaggeration about how you’ve now finished reading your magazine. Turn around to those also waiting and make eye contact. Brandish only a look of smug entitlement. Shift in your seat slightly. Lift your feet. Wait for the first signs of movement from the existing customer and then when you spot it – straight up, arms flailing, flash your teeth and move, move, move you’re the king of the jungle now…
I was next in line this time, preparing my end game as described above when I was thrown completely off-balance. There I was, Top Gear in hand as the door opens and an old guy enters the barbers, a very old guy. He was of that age where you can mutter “hurry up old timer” and “should you still be driving, yes you, stick to the left gramps” at him and not feel guilty about it because you’re pretty sure he can’t hear you anyway and if he could he’ll only forget a few minutes later when he remembers its time for Jelly.
He caught my attention because well – he didn’t have any hair. If you were generous enough to call what he didn’t have a style, it would have to be the “the Homer Simpson”. He absolutely did not need to go the barbers.
Why was he at the barbers? Was it like when the zombies in Dawn of the Dead headed to the shopping mall, relying on instinct and muscle memory alone to poorly imitate humans? Shouldn’t someone say something? Should I tap zombie simpson on the shoulders and let him know he’s as bald as a newborn? Would the barber play just play along?
“Ah hello again Fred, the usual I take it?” he would say “ah you know me so well, yes please get it to I’m not getting any younger” the old man would jovially respond.
The Barber walks round cutting thin air for 20mins while they both talk about their upcoming holidays.
“Ah that’s much better, taken 20 years off you now” the barber would joke “and $20 as well” the old man would quip, “hahahahahaha” they’d both laugh…
Could he even still be charged full price? Lets face it, you wouldn’t pay full price for socks that only covered one toe.
Why was he here, and why was no-one informing him the strands he still had, probably only visible under microscope, would come off of their own accord next time there was a breeze? Then I had a sickening thought – what if someone else is saying that very same thing about me?!?! If they weren’t this time, then how long would it be before I’m that guy. Not in age, but in hair denial. Maybe I already am…
I sat down in the barbers chair.
“What can I do for you today? Just shorter all over?” my trendy, trainered, handsome and stubbly barber asks. I hate him already, “you make it sound like I have options? To be honest it feels like I’m losing the war a little bit here and might as well just shave it all off” I respond defeated “yeah over-compensating isn’t working, I recommend you go really short on the sides and whatever you do have left on the top will look much more in comparison” he says buoyantly. “Feels like getting off on a technicality, 0×0 is still zero, but okay lets go for it.”
Sigh
What’s up?
“I just don’t feel ready to say goodbye to my hair. I don’t mind this happening, but it just feels 10 years too early. I’m only 25!” I plead, to everyone and no-one in particular.
“Look at me, I’m 38, still got a full head of hair, but no kids, I must be shooting blanks.”
He interrupts me considering whether bald people are even allowed to have children, not legally I’m sure that’s fine, but ethically – pro-active darwinism if you will. The world is not a kind place for monkey children with poor eyesight and receding hairlines.
“That’s just the way it goes, all part of life’s rich tapestry!” he adds, “are you trying to make feel better about myself or vomit? Are there any spare threads in life rich tapestry that I could borrow and perhaps glue to my head?”
The cutting shaving begins. Sigh
“Have you thought about growing a beard, you know, to compensate?” he asks, “ah I see you know all the tricks. Yes I’ve been using the beard decoy for years now, since I was about 12 in fact.” I respond happy we found at least one thing I am good at, “Yeah, you look like you could grow a mean beard” he says, looking impressed. “Oh, you’ve no idea, Adam Taliban Fletcher they call me.”
More shaving. We discuss that I’m leaving NZ soon. He tells me that he probably wont see me in there again before I leave then. I tell him he probably will as its still 7 weeks away, how often should I get a haircut?
“You need a haircut once a month mate!” I’m a little dumbfounded. “Once a month? If I had no teeth, would I go to the dentist once a month?” I ask. “I guess not, no. Hey, do you want to take some hair with you? You know as a souvenir.” he’s looking down at the few strands at the bottom of the stool, which are blonde so clearly from the man before. Kick a man while he’s down why don’t you, I think. “Nah its fine, I’ve plenty on my pillow. If it had legs it could pass for a sheepdog.”
“Okay, well see you in a month then.”
I can’t wait…
