Trust in an otherwise cut-throat world

A man must never be too good for his barber. I just made that up while simultaneously deciding to live my life by it. Path shaking epiphany though it has been I feel I have believed this all my hair-borne life.

I made the mistake of going to one of those up-market salons a while back. I had just started earning money and hair seemed like a good place to start trading up. Little did I know there would be plenty of judging and smirking as my new ‘stylist’ sifted through my hitherto rudimentarily managed locks with a disdain reminiscent of my high school biology teacher, evaluating my best attempt at drawing a hibiscus. I must confess that to this day I have never been required to draw another hibiscus nor see this need arising in any foreseeable future. I can, however, sketch an admirable orange.

But back to barbers.

Once done with my new haircut, I proceeded to shell out 6 times the amount I would normally pay for what looked like the same product as dished out by my local barber. My stylist assured me that if I took a really close look at my hair I would notice that each strand had been cut at a specific angle (he didn’t mention the degree – yes, I did ask). This, he explained to me – half condescending, half utter revulsion – was the hallmark of a good haircut. To what end? I wondered. Anyone coming close enough to assess the angle at which each hair was cut would qualify as just creepy. And I don’t see why I paid 6 times my normal rate so creepy would think more highly of me and my hirsute pedigree.

When I did go back to my local barber, not 4 weeks later, he had shut shop. I like to think the loss of my custom did not influence this in any way. I also like to think about clouds – or as I sometimes call them to scare myself ‘floating oceans’ (shudder!).

So I hunted for a new barber and after wandering aimlessly for more than 8 meters, I found one. It was below ground level, well lit, had many chairs, which were all empty, and one very bored looking barber. I am to this day amazed that so many people, who look quite ordinary from the outside, possess the magical skill to cut the hair from a human head without ruining it completely. At about 12 haircuts a year for 28 years, I’ve come within snipping range of many a barber – well over a hundred, I’m sure (I’ve moved around a lot). That none of them have ever given me a ‘bad’ haircut says something. Or at least, it says something about my low benchmark for personal style. Either way, with a new barber, I’m always wondering if the odds have finally caught up with me this time and if I will in fact spend the next few weeks under a hat (of shame, that is. I would never wear a real hat; they can’t be trusted).

As I dealt with this trying and rather incongruous assessment of my new barber’s skills, he kept snipping, unaware of the turmoil that raged within me.

And then he pulled out the blade.

All anxiety of the upcoming quality of my hairdo was left in abeyance as I now focused on my other (and arguably more vital) ponder-point. How do we regularly allow a stranger to hold a blade to our necks without the slightest bit of fear? I mean, yes, he is a barber and yes he does do this for a living. But we wouldn’t be judged for being a little extra wary of the guy tying our bungee jumping cord and after all – how much more qualified is a barber than the guy who ties the bungee jumping cord? Did he go to barber school where they’re required to take the barber equivalent of the Hippocratic oath? I doubt it. He could just do what he wants. He could slice my jugular, or he could just walk around with an AIDS blade and nick people for the fun of it. I don’t know – I’m imagining stuff here, but blades are scary bits of evil. Even scarier than clouds maybe!

Now usually, the barbershop is full. So I soothe my grievances with the knowledge that if the guy did intend to slit my throat, there would be witnesses. So perhaps he’d be careful not to. Unless they were a whole team of murdering barbers - but who would coordinate that? The logistics would be mind-boggling. Customers don’t come all at once. Some even have an annoying person waiting outside the barbershop giving instructions. And some have beards. You can’t kill a guy with a beard – they just don’t die. No – I don’t think murdering barbers exist. But murdering barber in an empty barbershop? Maybe. He may have a whole room full of dead people at the back with half-haircuts (or maybe he finishes cutting the hair after killing them. I suppose that would be the least he could do right?).

I looked around for signs of blood – there were none. I felt a little more relaxed. I tried to look deep in my barber’s eyes through the mirror. But everyone knows the soul does not reflect off glass, so I turned around to look him deep (and soulfully) in the eyes. This was obviously new to him and I can’t say it wasn’t a little awkward overall. But no – he didn’t seem like a killer. But what the hell do I know? Chances are you only meet a psychotic killer once. And then he/she kills you. It doesn’t leave a lot of opportunity for a thorough character mapping.

As it happens I didn’t run out of there screaming. Impressed? Well, so was I. In times like these one must hold ones nerves or one gets a semi-haircut. My new barber finished off and brushed all the extra hair from my shoulders. We then proceeded to do the closing dance of the barbershop – where he holds a mirror behind me at different angles and I nod appreciatively at the back of my own head.

Then it came time to pay him, so just to be sure he would not follow me home and kill me, I paid him 6 times what he asked.

As I said – a man must never be too good for his barber.