Ben V
Ben V shares his experience of a recent haircut, proving men are just as prone to possible hair mare nerves as us. See ladies? They DO feel stuff. Occasionally. JOKE.
(not a joke).
Haircuts are a funny old thing.
I walk in, reluctant but knowing that I look like I’m wearing a mop on my head and, if I don’t go soon, I’m never going to get laid. Let’s not mention the oh so ironic fact that I’m not getting laid anyway, I’d rather keep some dignity.
So, I go in, tense anyway, self conscious as all hell and, to make matters worse, I’ve got to wait for the one guy in the room whom I trust (a loose term) to approach me with scissors. They look at me, curiously, weighing me up, does he, is he? No, I don’t fancy him, no I am not his friend, I just think you all look like freaks and would need sedation to sit in your chairs. I know it’s hackneyed but what the hell is it with hairdressers all having bad hair? It’s so so rare to find one who looks, dare I use the term, normal.
“I paid £450 for this rinse. It’s a Labyrinse.”
So Roberto finally finishes and I sit in the chair. Too high, I realise this, then slouch, too low. Fuck. Where do I put my hands? On the knees? Safe but twattish, hands perched on knees, looking like an expectant nine year old. Give him a sweetie. No, no good, try by your sides…no, that’s shit too – they keep brushing his thighs..awkward. Crossed is waay too nervous, it’s going to have to be the knees..
Uh, right, the haircut..it’s horrible, I never know what to say, so usually sit there like a serial killer, eyes scanning the room, mind running a million times an hour, unable to communicate the insanity behind the stony face so ready to sublimate the rage by laying about me with the straight razor… I swear, sometimes, it’s a near thing. Anyway, the clipper bit is relatively fine, apart from being convinced that he’s going to just keep saying ‘I’m sorry sir, I thought you said crew cut’… Honestly, no matter how many times he says ‘same as before?’, I still sit there almost resigned to leaving the place looking like a jarhead. That’s not the worst, I slowly realise that he’s not going to clipper me into celibacy but, by the time I’m comfortable, he switches to the bloody scissors…it’s as if he does it on purpose, waiting till the stress levels go down, then hits me with something else. Cunt.
So, the Sharp Things come out and he goes at it around my ears, snipping tiny bits of hair with ultra quick little cuts, with sharp, mean looking scissors.. Fearing your ears are going to be snipped is old but it’s not that, it’s almost that I have to restrain myself from moving my head..like a part of me wants him to fuck up and take a chunk out of my face, just like the beginning of Untouchables, with DeNiro getting a shave, the barber nicks his cheek and he puts his finger in the blood, wipes in on the horrified barber and says its fine (I want to see the outtake where the barber ends up in the river). Only, if my guy does it to me, I’d want to scream, roll around on the floor and spray as much blood as I can all over the shop… He never does, so I never do.. Pity.
It’s all gravy from then. He trims a little, blow drys some and then gets the mini clippers out – the mean sounding little buzzy ones. I love this bit. It’s like a handjob after a vicious massage. The buzzy thing is saying ‘neat neat neat’ as he does the edges and trims my nasty, thick neck hair.. Then it’s blowdry again, mirror and hair wax..
By the time I get up, I’m so grateful I don’t look like a post brain surgery patient, I usually tip double and run out the door before he can get me back in the chair for experiments or whatever..
The next four hours are a blissful glow of reflective surfaces, and feeling good about myself. It never lasts past a sleep but, then again, what does?
- Ben (@Benvig)
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Tags: Ben, Benvig, haircut, hairdresser
