All the trimmings
2007-06-12 09:53
David Moseley
For the past four years I've been completely faithful. To my hairdresser.
I frequent the joint because the atmosphere is jolly and if you want a crisp beer while the stylist hacks at your sideburns you're more than welcome.
When you're doing anything these days it's essential that you take a beer along. It takes the edge off and it's far more effective at distorting reality than three hours of Pirates of the Caribbean. But earlier this year I cheated.
For the sake of expediency I tried a spot just around the corner from my new office. And the hairdresser was, well, a far more impressive specimen. Soft hands, olive skin, raven black hair shaped in 40 different directions. Ouch. She was indeed a hairdressing hottie.
I just wanted it shaved, she wanted to get creative. She told me I had "gorgeous" hair. Just wait till you see my bum, I countered. I insisted on the clippers, but I promised I'd come back so she could have her way with me. And yesterday I wasn't disappointed.
In my varsity res we had one or two chaps who acted as the resident barbers. It was cost-effective and efficient. That is, it was free and if the dude wasn't drunk you usually got away with a decent cut and both ears intact.
Later, in digs, I couldn't trust any of my housemates with a blunt weed-eater let alone an incisive set of blades. Eventually we got a cow. It was great for trimming the lawn, but her styling options were limited to licks.
A heavenly haircut
At the risk of one less pie on a Friday night, I plumped for Heavenly Haircuts, an establishment run by a menacing-yet-nimble fingered old tannie. She was cheap, though far from cheerful. And I think she also practiced on her daschund.
Once, I must have been drunk, I let her peroxide my hair. She forgot to do the sideburns (mine are pretty emphatic) and spilt most of the chemical on the only swish shirt I had as a student. I should have known better when I saw her doggie walking around with creamy blotches on his brown coat.
From university I graduated to the workplace and to various grooming salons that better befitted my up-and-coming status in the world, eventually settling on my hitherto excellent hairdresser. She never gave me a bad cut so I feel slightly caddish, though not ashamed, to admit that I've deserted her for a sexier alternative. I'm shallow. I know it. I don't fight it, I embrace it.
Like my new hairdresser tenderly embraced my shaggy head of hair yesterday afternoon.
I love getting my haircut. I almost always drift off into a drooling half-coma when the perky assistant is massaging my head at the basin. Yesterday I didn't want the magic to stop as Nadia (I mean come on. Does it get more exotic? And she's from Belgium. Good grief.) yanked my hair from side to side and commented on the sex appeal of my blossoming grey streaks.
But of course.
She got it all right. She giggled at all my stupid jokes and practically begged me to come back soon. Most importantly, though, she didn't bend my ears for 30 minutes with grave stories about her incontinent gran. That's always a plus.
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