It was around 2pm on an overcast West Yorkshire Saturday afternoon. In a barbers shop seat a middle aged northern Englishman, who’d not had a haircut for sixteen weeks, sits in anticipation at the imminent removal of his unkempt lockdown locks.
This man’s mood conflicted. On one hand he has grown tired of his unmanageable locks, which on awaking each morning gave him the wacky look of late Goon member Michael Bentine. On the negative side, though, the haircut would deprive his bald patch the stealth it’d enjoyed in recent weeks.
If there’d been one boon for this fella during the whole COVID debacle it was the absence of enduring his adult children labelling him “Baldy!”. Although, that’s might just be resultant from not seeing either of them for months!
Anyhow, I’m sick of penning myself in the third person, so you’re getting the remainder of the monologue with yours truly described in the first person……. God, I’m such a maverick!
Once the barbers clippers started whirring and he began plying his trade, within moments I literally felt a weight lifting from my shoulders. Whilst hair cascaded onto timber flooring and my new Gola trainers below, I concluded it’s a shame the metaphoric weights on my shoulders weren’t as easy to purge.
Thankfully, there were none of the consequences suffered by Samson after Delilah had shorn his flowing locks. I lost no strength during or after the haircut. I do, though, appear to have mislaid my left ear!
Not only did I pamper myself with a hair trim, but also decadently splashed out further by having my equally unkempt beard and eyebrows trimmed. The latter taking on almost Yosemite Sam proportions under COVID’s watch.
Although, when requesting the latter ‘treatment’ I inadvertently confused the barber when requesting an eye lash trim. Only realising my mistake when he bemusedly asked his colleague (the barbershop owner) if they were insured to trim eyelashes!
On completion of the various head trims, I looked in the mirror and thought “Blimey, I’ve become a right fat b*****d during lockdown!” Awareness consequential of having my beard trimmed, making my double chins significantly more conspicuous. This, though, as hard as it tried, not denting any pleasure manifesting from once again getting a haircut.
While undertaking the shear, my barber asked why I’d not engaged my mum, who I’m residing with, to cut my hair during the enforced sixteen week hiatus from a barbers chair. To which I responded with the tongue in cheek “You’re joking aren’t you, I’ve seen her chop onions!“…… No, he didn’t laugh either!
Returning into chez Strachan, I was bursting with brio at my new cut. On closing the front door, the purging of my locks allowing me to see my head’s summit in the hallway mirror for the first time in weeks.
Following a few minor chores, yours truly commenced a video call with my son Jonny. On answering the call, my 30 year old boy greeted me with “Hello, baldy!…. Where’s your left ear?!”…….. Jeez!
