Something for the weekend?
by Keef Charles
Mods and Rockers.
Hippies and crew cuts.
Hairies and Skinheads.
Over the last few decades, hairstyles have definitely helped define how we see ourselves and how we want others to see us. Yeh, I know, it’s been a social phenomenon for centuries...but I’m referring to more recent history; that to which some of us can relate. How we choose to wear our hair is part of our expression / our mantle. Ironically, helping us to portray ourselves as individuals. Simultaneously, hiding us behind a collective style and image.
How do you feel about haircuts? Is it for you a necessary evil? Or are you one of those that revel in the whole experience? There are some really class hairdressing salons around and for some people, this grooming is an integral part of their week. Things have moved on considerably from the days of the old barber. Fag in the mouth. Naughty wink as he asks if the guy in the chair wants “something for the weekend“. Guys are more open to the experience of ‘gentleman’s grooming’.
Alas, not me...
I don’t frequent barbers or hairdressers these days, on account of not having enough hair up top to justify it. I just shove a hair trimmer into the palm of my hand and get on with it. So long as I run it back and forth, back and forth, back and forth enough times, it ends up reasonably tidy.
Sure!...I’d like to have a full head of hair but thinning and balding can have its advantages.
You see, I made the mistake, a number of years ago, of asking my wife to cut my hair on a Sunday evening. I had a mild panic about looking scruffy for a business trip to South Africa and insisted she gave it a go, even though she had drunk a couple of beers. She did warn me. Anyway, to cut a long story short, if you’ll pardon the pun...I made an emergency stop in a barber before heading for the airport. The only way to redeem the situation was for them to give me a Grade 1 all over. Sheesh, that was the shortest it had been for a long time.
Maybe you did a better job of controlling your fate. Not me...
Going back considerably further, I recall the time my brother Andy and I persuaded our mum that the Autumn School Term didn’t start until Tuesday. We must have been 12 and 14 years old, respectively, at the time. Wow, did that backfire! My mum said: “Well then, if you don’t have to go to school, you can get your hair cut instead”. We weren’t happy about that but didn’t think it wise to push it, seeing as we’d got the day off. Well, you know what? We both wished we’d gone to school instead. The barber was the sort that wielded not only his hairdressing scissors but an evil power as well. Despite our request for minimal shearing, he gave us both a short back and sides. We were mortified!
Going back further still…
We were stationed in Singapore; back in 1969. It was here we suffered at the hands of this Malayan guy who would ply his trade around the camp. Generally speaking, only Air Force personnel were allowed to conduct business on the camp but his grandmother had bravely put her life at risk during the Second World War. RAF Changi had an ominous past. The occupying Japanese forces had turned the base into a large scale complex to detain Prisoners of War. This barber’s grandmother, and I use the term ‘barber’ very loosely, had gone into the camp each day with a wooden handcart; selling vegetables to the prison kitchens. Unbeknownst to the Japanese guards, the handcart had a false bottom. Inside this cramped space, a lucky prisoner would clamber and curl up, remaining as quiet and motionless as possible, until safely outside the prison gates. If their ruse had been found out, both prisoner and rescuer would have been put to death ...after some excruciating torture.
So, unfortunately for me and my younger brother Andy, by way of thanks for his grandmother’s heroic efforts, this guy had a licence to stroll around the camp, yelling “HAIRCUT! HAAAIRCUTT!” at the top of his voice. His tools and stools were pushed around on a wooden handcart. I doubt that it was the same one as his grandmother’s, complete with concealed escape compartment. Shame the guy wasn’t selling vegetables or even fruit. He was selling haircuts. “HAIRCUT!”
He was unbelievably bad! I swear Andy and I could have done a better job with a bowl and blunt knife. Even at the tender age of ten and eight, we knew it was shocking. The only saving grace was that it took place one day during the primary school’s half term break. That gave us about a week’s growing time before we went back. A week was nowhere near long enough for it to grow to a decent length but at least it didn’t look quite as dog chewed. It still ruined our holiday though, to a degree. We had to be very choosy about which friends to go and call for. Kids are like mini adults, they can be awfully cruel; especially when they had they managed to escape the same fate. Didn’t happen again, I can assure you. Next time we heard “HAIRCUT!” bellowed somewhere in the distance, we ran. We legged it quick as we could, out of harm’s way!
My last haircut… more of a neck and beard trim really…