I was back in the manic barber’s again. It was early in the morning, but there was still a queue. There was only one of the girls on duty. Her toddler son was at the far end of the salon in one of those cradles with wheels that force the child to stand upright and thrash his legs around like a fly stuck in a pot of jam. The child was sucking on something sticky, so that seemed to take care of him for the time being. ‘Toy Story’ on DVD blazed into my left ear as I sat on a chromium-plated chair awaiting my turn. I couldn’t escape the adventures of Buzz Lightyear and Woody if I had tried. Ahead of me was a fat, greasy chap in a disreputable suit that was as shiny as the Vanderbilt diamond. He was bald, but his lank, oily hair swirled down over his collar. I shuddered when I realised that the hairdresser would be using her implements on me after him. Fortunately, he grew fed of waiting and left the shop. The hairdresser was working on a nervous-looking teenage boy with protuberant ears, and seemed to have been doing so for an inordinate length of time. She was cutting his hair in the modern style, that is, to make it look as if someone had lightly passed a strimmer over his head. She kept taking a millimetre off here, and a millimeter off there, never seeming to be satisfied. She spent five minutes on the boy’s ‘duck’s tail’, which he wanted left longer than the rest of his hair. Eventually, both parties were satisfied, so she kneaded a fistful of axle grease into his scalp and sent him, rejoicing, on his way.
The hairdresser called me to the chair. She was about twenty-five, short, inclined towards dumpiness and sporting short, peroxide-blonde hair, through which you could plainly see raven-coloured roots. She wore an immodest red patterned blouse and beige trousers. I asked for my usual eight on top and four at the sides, although I can never remember which way round it is. One day, I’ll get it wrong and come out looking like Max Wall. I soon found out why a haircut took so long. The hairdresser was garrulous. I was quite unprepared for the avalanche of words that spilled from her lips. I hardly managed to get a word in edgeways. A fragment of the monologue, rather than conversation, went like this:
‘Do you log onto Facebook?’
‘Not very…’
Well, they’ve got a group for selling things. I sell lots of baby clothes on that.’
‘I don’t like…’
‘Anyway, I won’t let the buyers into my house. I wrap the stuff up and leave it on the doorstep, put an arm out of the door, get my money and close the door in their faces.’
‘Is that…?’
‘Anyway, a friend of mine sold a lawn-mower, I think it was, yes a lawn-mower, to a bloke. He was weird. She let him into the house and he refused to leave. Three hours later, he was still in the passage, staring, like. Really weird.’
‘Why didn’t she…?
‘Call the police. Yes, that’s what I thought. She ended up having to get a neighbour to remove him. A big bloke he was, a bouncer at a nightclub. The weirdo soon went. He could have had a knife or a machete or anything. She might have been viscerlated.’
All the while she was cropping a sixteenth of an inch from the back of my neck.
‘Want your eyebrows done?’
I nodded my acquiescence.
She went on to tell me about her landlord.
‘Anyway, I pay eight hundred pounds a month for this furnished, four-bedroom detached house. It’s got a Jacuzzi.’
‘A jac..?’
‘That’s right, a Jacuzzi. Anyway, I found out from a friend of mine at the lettings agency that my landlord’s a bit of a swinger.’
‘A swing…?’
‘That’s right, a swinger. You wouldn’t think of it to look at him. He’s over sixty and fat as a pig. His wife’s just thirty. Imagine that.’
‘It’s hard…’
‘Anyway, I should have cottoned on. I thought there was something not quite right about him.’
‘In what…?’
‘I should have guessed from the number of fruit bowls he had about the house. It’s a well-known fact that swingers have loads of fruit bowls in their house.’
‘I didn’t…’
‘I know you wouldn’t know that. I mean, you’re more or less normal. I don’t take you for a swinger.’
‘Thank…’
‘Anyway, it’s a good job I cleaned the Jacuzzi thoroughly before I went in it. Otherwise, God knows what I might have caught.’
After twenty-five minutes of similar flapdoodle, she picked up a mirror that was lying on the shelf and held it up behind my head.
‘That do you?’ she said.
‘Fine, thanks.’ I replied.
I gave her a gratuity because it was a first-class haircut.
‘Thanks’, she said, pocketing it. ‘You’ve had a good haircut and a nice little chat into the bargain.’
I’d had that, all right.
The hairdresser called me to the chair. She was about twenty-five, short, inclined towards dumpiness and sporting short, peroxide-blonde hair, through which you could plainly see raven-coloured roots. She wore an immodest red patterned blouse and beige trousers. I asked for my usual eight on top and four at the sides, although I can never remember which way round it is. One day, I’ll get it wrong and come out looking like Max Wall. I soon found out why a haircut took so long. The hairdresser was garrulous. I was quite unprepared for the avalanche of words that spilled from her lips. I hardly managed to get a word in edgeways. A fragment of the monologue, rather than conversation, went like this:
‘Do you log onto Facebook?’
‘Not very…’
Well, they’ve got a group for selling things. I sell lots of baby clothes on that.’
‘I don’t like…’
‘Anyway, I won’t let the buyers into my house. I wrap the stuff up and leave it on the doorstep, put an arm out of the door, get my money and close the door in their faces.’
‘Is that…?’
‘Anyway, a friend of mine sold a lawn-mower, I think it was, yes a lawn-mower, to a bloke. He was weird. She let him into the house and he refused to leave. Three hours later, he was still in the passage, staring, like. Really weird.’
‘Why didn’t she…?
‘Call the police. Yes, that’s what I thought. She ended up having to get a neighbour to remove him. A big bloke he was, a bouncer at a nightclub. The weirdo soon went. He could have had a knife or a machete or anything. She might have been viscerlated.’
All the while she was cropping a sixteenth of an inch from the back of my neck.
‘Want your eyebrows done?’
I nodded my acquiescence.
She went on to tell me about her landlord.
‘Anyway, I pay eight hundred pounds a month for this furnished, four-bedroom detached house. It’s got a Jacuzzi.’
‘A jac..?’
‘That’s right, a Jacuzzi. Anyway, I found out from a friend of mine at the lettings agency that my landlord’s a bit of a swinger.’
‘A swing…?’
‘That’s right, a swinger. You wouldn’t think of it to look at him. He’s over sixty and fat as a pig. His wife’s just thirty. Imagine that.’
‘It’s hard…’
‘Anyway, I should have cottoned on. I thought there was something not quite right about him.’
‘In what…?’
‘I should have guessed from the number of fruit bowls he had about the house. It’s a well-known fact that swingers have loads of fruit bowls in their house.’
‘I didn’t…’
‘I know you wouldn’t know that. I mean, you’re more or less normal. I don’t take you for a swinger.’
‘Thank…’
‘Anyway, it’s a good job I cleaned the Jacuzzi thoroughly before I went in it. Otherwise, God knows what I might have caught.’
After twenty-five minutes of similar flapdoodle, she picked up a mirror that was lying on the shelf and held it up behind my head.
‘That do you?’ she said.
‘Fine, thanks.’ I replied.
I gave her a gratuity because it was a first-class haircut.
‘Thanks’, she said, pocketing it. ‘You’ve had a good haircut and a nice little chat into the bargain.’
I’d had that, all right.
