Don’t you all hate hair dressers? Have you ever met one who gave you what you want? Perhaps Folicophobia is taking is one step too far, but I’m sure that at least one other person in this room has been angry at a hair dresser because they’ve made a mess worse than regurgitated couscous on your head.
Now take one look at me. I know I may not be one who visits the barbers often, but if ya’ll close your eyes for me, your mental imaging faculties will show you why.
Orange light blinds you. Stale gel, hairspray and aftershave burns your nose like snorting cocaine – without the getting high. As icing to the cake, your ears are greeted with the constant echoing of shavers galore. On the waiting bench, all the old fogies line up for their execution while passing around a censored, out-dated porn magazine from ’97.
In the corner, a woman with knife edged, long white nails slices through the foamy scalp of some helpless patient who silently screams out that she only wanted a trim.
The tools of destruction are lined up and down the shelves which support the magnificent mirrors; carefully lined up to repeat the images of each other and thus trap you in an infinite abyss of hair dressing equipment.
Shudder.
The fake leather squeaks as you sit down before being throttled by the hair bib. Of all the hair dressers you could possibly have, it always has to be the fat bloke with the cold.
The scissors are horrid. They’re actually more like pliers because they’re so blunt, but, a blunt knife is more lethal than a sharp one. And yes, it’s the same with hair combs.
“Oh, I’m so sorry! Did I nip your ear? Here, let me help you…” I’d rather you didn’t, actually. And don’t even think about cutting the other one off for symmetry.
Then comes the shaver. The finely serrated twin tip blade begins to resonate its sheering authority as the barber flicks the switch of doom. It edges closer and closer to your skull getting louder and louder until you become agitated and squirm and frantically try to escape its deadly approach--- You’re snapped back to your senses as a penetrating jolt to the back of your neck is followed by “Head down, ple… pl… pl…” You know it’s coming, but you’re paralyzed by fear. “Ah… Ah… AH…” ZZZZZZZzzz. (sneeze) Your bottom lip quivers. A tear forms in your eye as the clump of hair to mark your new bald patch gently glides to the tiled floor.
The man now slops some blue goo onto your scalp and massages it into something Gareth Gates will sue you for. He pokes you with the hair brush which does the opposite of its job and scatters inevitable itchy hair down the void between your back and your shirt which will haunt you for months. In fact, by the time it’s gone, you’ll probably be ready for another hair cut, yippee!
You get shown a cracked hand mirror to reveal how awful the back of your head looks. The till lady smiles at you and shouts some wallet-meteor level bill. How can they expect you to pay a reward for Hurricane-Headache they’ve just caused? How can they sleep at night knowing they’re diminishing mankind’s freedom, and thus tearing a cavity in the very fabric of society? Ah, the sleeping pills. Guaranteed a good night no matter how many sheep you shaved last Wednesday.
You slap the bill down on the counter and hear the little bell ring as you stomp out, to be inconceivably humiliated for the three or so weeks that follow.