I made an embarrassing revelation a few weeks ago about my shameless quest to save cash and how I had a £5 haircut that was like total carnage. Today I upgraded and went for a £10 haircut. I’ve not only upped but have doubled my ante.
I was feeling slightly sticky after a brisk stroll from work. The weather was hot and stark and I couldn’t face the bus with its heaters constantly blasting out in spite of the 30-degree heat. Walking felt like the better option. Every bus journey of late has left me on the brink of throwing up in the aisle. I stopped off by the station near where we live at a light and airy barbers which looked clean and vaguely stylish. Being greeted by a hot six-foot bloke in his early 30s with olive skin and good arms made me forget the sweat pooling in my crevices.
He was a talkative barber. I never know which is worse: the surly ones who ignore you or the prattling ones you have to make an effort with. This one was entertaining and to be honest, he had such a handsome face that I really couldn’t have cared if he read out the cricket scores. I’m a fool for a swarthy man brandishing tools (or scissors).
He began the snipping and was actually very nifty. My eyes occasionally noted his handiwork although I must admit that he did appear to have what looked like a small mammal nestling in the front of his trousers that drew my eye. I started to feel very warm indeed under the cape type thing.
“I am from Turkey! I am living here one year and I practice my English. Do you mind me practice talk?”
“I’d love it!’ I exclaimed with a smile, like he’d just offered me a winning lottery ticket.
We began to make small talk and I tried hard not to look at the ageing pink thing in the mirror that was being groomed by this Adonis.
“Is very hot in Turkey. Is hot here too, no? For Irish man like you is bad when you are very pink.”
I wasn’t offended. Irish is fine with me. They have great writers there and the drinking culture is great.
“Is also very bad in the day. Turkish people sleep from perhaps 12 till 5. Is 42 degrees there today. For a man like you is very hard to go outside when he has a patch of…what is the saying!…on his head. What is it I say?’
“Bald patch?” I replied, instantly feeling just a little more humiliated.
He nodded vigorously: “Yes! Big bald patch!’
I smiled coquettishly in spite of dying a little inside.
We carried on like this for a while: me getting pinker, him getting more unfeasibly handsome in spite of his casual lack of tact in front of this aging red faced sweat machine: “You have very hairy neck! Do any barber tell you that you have very hairy neck?”
I decided there and then. I’d rather he’d spoken to me in Turkish. I wouldn’t have understood a word, but in my mind he’d have been telling me how beautiful I am and how he wished the men of Turkey were so fair and ravishing.
As it was: it cost me ten quid, I got to glance sideways at a hot man with what looked a massive schlong in his slacks and my hair looks great. Everyone is a winner but my poor pride. I’ll be back for more in a month.
Chris is a theatre and book obsessed Midlander who escaped to London. He’s usually to be found slumped in a seat in a darkened auditorium.
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