Choose Your Hairdresser Wisely

The following is an experience that should never happen to a Sartorial Male. Let this be a lesson to us all.

After a tough day and with a weekend of socialising ahead of me, I needed a quick, cheap and tidy hair cut. On my way to a train station, in an area that cannot be name, I was greeted at the last corner to turn with a barbers.

All I wanted were the sides taking shorter and the length on top leaving exactly as it was. A simple procedure that I have had performed many a time. Nothing quite like what you are about to hear has ever, and should never happen to anyone…ever.

I walk into the salon and see the barber sat on his bench. The place is empty and so one is immediately directed to the chair. Over the cloak goes and I explain what I want. Very clearly. I notice that as I am telling this, the man has a somewhat lazy eye and glasses that resemble triple glazed windows. I gaze over his attire and he is donning an old faded and slightly tight charcoal (previous black) polo, black jogging bottoms that finish at his ankle – not elasticated: so one would presume they had shrunk, white socks and black hiking sandals. The moment I reached his feet I was filled with dread and my acquaintance looked equally as nervous and hid behind a back dated copy of Heat.

The clippers began and off went the sides. It was all going well. He trotted away from view and I thought great, I must be finished. I also noticed a queue of Lebanese men had formed – a style of man that does not resemble my own. The guy trots back, making heavy, saliva echoed breathing. He whips out a shaving brush and a mug of water and begins wetting the hairline from the side all around the back and the side again. He takes out a Sweeney Todd style blade and begins sharpening up my… ‘border’.

I daren't move and can see I'm looking somewhat Italian and have now gained the thinnest side burns down to my jaw. He limped off and I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. The barber took out some thinning scissors to which I outright protested! He was having none of it and went for my longer hair to ‘belend’- not a spelling, a pronunciation. Afterwards, he swooshed to cloak off and beckoned me into the back room.

What happened next happened so quickly I can barely believe my memories. He turned on the washbasin, grabbed the back of my neck and shuvved me under. I was soaked head to toe. He lifted me up, threw me a towel and proceeded to lift the tap, out of its socket and drink from it. Yes, you read that right...

He then said ‘$15’, I paid him and left, absolutely sodden. I walked around the corner and screamed with uncontrollable laughter. I couldn’t even breathe. There I was, Lebanese hair do, dripping wet and in the middle of shit brick nowhere. Well, we howled on the train home.

Thank god for the pack of Gillette razors at home - the side burns lasted 10 minutes, but my hairline was scarred for weeks.

Choose your hairdresser wisely.