Just call me Shaun

It was raining. You know, that slime rain. Dirty rain that just slips around, muddy, black, icky rain; oh joy. I park and dash through the dampness, past the church and into the town square, through a back alley and into the barber's doorway.

I can smell the musty cigarette smoke as I climb the stairs and the mostly-talk radio blaring out at unnatural volumes. At the top are a set of Church pews; in fact most of the place looks like it used wood reclaimed from a church. It's a split mezzanine and the upper level is protected by a pulpit balcony. Thick heavy wooden bench/tables flow down either side of the room and a selection of traditional leather barbers chairs await the clientele.

Heavy wooden mirrors hang from thick chains rest in front of each position. Chain and ironmongery also descends from the ceiling to complete this rather macho look into the world of haircutting. Things then get strange.

First you notice the radiator grills from classic cars attached to the walls, and then slightly disturbing B&W fashion shots of camp men and butch women screwed to the walls; screwed in a random way. No pattern, no logic.

(continued)

I sat and contemplated; the stack of guy mags left on the side has never grabbed my interest. I watched as another customer was sheared; the place was relatively deserted leaving just the one dedicated guy cutting away.

When I finally got into the barbers chair I was presented with the habitual dilemma: how to get what I want. How do you describe this event to a professional with scissors in one hand and a switch-blade in the other? I did my usual mumbling vagueness, he nods his head and another random haircut is created.

"How are we today sir?"

Ah, I realized another pleasantry conversation on the way. Don't get me wrong, I'm a chatty guy, but this always seems so awkward. Neither of us really wants to talk; it'll be about the weather or something one of us doesn't care about; yet it seems inescapable, it is then he enters into this whole rant all by himself.

Lack-luster junior-boy was on a skive. Junior-haircutting-boy it transpires is often on a skive. Gets in late, wants to leave early, sulks and skives when he doesn't get his way. Real youth of today stuff.

He rants, I listen, he cuts. Bliss. No thinking required.

Silence. Oh heck, he's finishing ranting. My eyes darted around the room, quick, another conversation topic, then gold-dust. Snuck neatly in the corner of the mirror was a photo. A photo of a racing lurcher dog. I ask. He talks. Ahhhhhhh. I learn about Slippers and the whole Royal-esc racing community. Rich people playing as he put it. More importantly the cutting continues and slowly I go from mad-professor to member-of-the-public.

It's then he pulls out the switch-blade. Now I don't know if everyone gets to experience one in their day-to-day life, but the deft hand of a barber always fascinates me. The blade swings out with such precision from its ivory handle with grace and skill, dips in the ethol and then follows my imperfect skin contours without any loss of blood.

"Would you like any product?"

Ah our transaction is nearly complete.

"No, no product."

He removes the chairs armrest and I slide out to pay. His change draw opens and his real world is revealed; a mix of papers, money and more importantly a spirit bottle. A conversation for another time; do I care? Not really, the guy cuts damn good hair.