It's a fundamental fact of natural history that the majority of male humans dislike getting their hair cut. I state right at the beginning that I am one of that majority. There is simply a social awkwardness that comes with someone not only invading your personal space, but invading your personal space with a pair of sharp scissors.
Men of this persuasion treat haircuts as an irritating necessity and something to be endured, like a trip to the dentist or a Richard Gere film and, as such, usually end up in a £7 just-a-trim-please-mate barber's. Very cheap, very quick and they offer an unspoken understanding of how uncomfortable a process it is. Don't want to talk? Then they won't talk. Don't mind talking? Then what team do you support?. It's like the topic of football cancels out the fact that another man has hold of your ears.
There is a drawback to this process though and that's that these barbers tend to offer a choice of two cuts - World War I tommy or Russian serial killer.
In my late teens and early twenties I had very long hair. I know, I know, but it was very big at the time and I thought it would get me girls - it didn't. My hair was gorgeous, long, with a slight curl and streaks of honey that shone after washing - and I washed it every day. Trouble was that it looked stupid crowning my squashy face. When I finally came to get it cut (about a year after I should've) I decided to go to a proper hairdresser's. I obviously hadn't had any kind of cut for years and before that it was either a barber's or a friend of the family.
So I went to the hairdresser's and the first thing they did was ask me the most awkward question possible - "what did I want?". I had no idea so I threw it back at them - "I dunno, what do you think I should have?". I walked out of there an hour later with a floppy Hugh Grant-style curtains cut. I know, I know, but it was very big at the time and I thought it would get me girls - it didn't.
From that moment on, I went to the barber's to get my hair cut.
The reason I am telling you all this is that I had my hair cut this morning - at Toni and Guys in Bromley. It cost £36 - another reason why men like barber's, they can never quite compute spending that much money on something that doesn't taste good or can be plugged in.
M talked me into it and, I'll be honest, I didn't need much persuading. My hair was showing the signs of years of ten-minute, £7 haircuts and coupled with my increasing grey, I looked ten years older than I am.
So in I went, 10am. There's a strange medical-ness to these kind of places - receptions, appointments, ill-fitting gowns, sharp implements, condescening air of superiority - that had me already feeling wary. Plus everyone is so good-looking, young and achingly hip that you feel like a Dad at a school disco.
The first action was the hair wash. Now here's a phenomenon that also gives men reason to go to barber's. Namely that I can wash my own hair. I can't cut my own hair, that's why I'm asking someone else to do it, but I am capable of washing it myself. It's like getting someone to cut up your food for you - the conditioner is like getting them to give it a couple of chews just to get it going.
Scott was my personal stylist, a really good guy, training to be a yoga teacher and hopes to have his own retreat one day - don't we all. He ended up taking about 45 minutes to do my hair, whether that's because it was really bad or they charge the fee per snip I don't know, but 45 minutes staring at yourself in an oversize mirror is so disconcerting I started to want to get up and smack that ugly fucker who was giving me the evil eye.
I am pleased with my cut though. Whether it's worth 36 english pounds I don't know, and considering I have to get my hair cut every month it could prove an expensive bit of ego massage. M likes it though, says I look younger and my head looks smaller. So I'll be back, I might go for the colour next time....
