“I do you head massage.”
I hadn’t realised a head massage was part of the bargain. The sign in the window of the new barbers shop, written in neat biro on lined paper, simply listed a variety of procedures you’d expect to find in this type of establishment – gents haircut, boys haircut, beard trim, shave and so on – at very reasonable prices. I was in here for a gents haircut. My hair was in need of scissors, that was plain to see. It wasn’t so obvious to me that my head was in need of a kneeding.
Before I had chance to say, oh, that really won’t be necessary, my skull doesn’t feel any stress, but thanks very much for the offer, he was drumming a paradiddle on my scalp.
Not a single barber in all my years of getting a haircut has ever taken notice of my plea, I can’t see a bloody thing without ’em, as I remove my glasses and slip them into a shirt pocket.
Without my glasses everything looks pretty much as if I was staring at the world out of the bottom of a couple of pint glasses. Try it. Empty the dregs out first, obviously. Wouldn’t want any craft ale in your eyes, you never know what’s in that stuff.
See? No, that’s right, you don’t. And I don’t see either.
Your average barber, though, cannot empathise with my visual disadvantage.
Of course he can see me, the barber thinks, I’m standing right next to him holding sharpened scissors to his neck and waving a comb. And what’s he think I bought that great big mirror for? My own amusement!
It is conceivable that the current barber somehow signalled his intention to batter my brain pan with a subtle look or gesture. And it is possible that he took my lack of response as an invitation. Enthusiasm, even. Yes, of course my good sir, I’d be delighted if you’d do me the honour of practising your percussion routine on the old bald spot, that would be just fabulous.
I tend to prefer my barbers to tell me what their next move will be through more traditional and less cryptic channels. The vocal chords.
There’s nothing wrong with my hearing.
I must have endured five minutes of tonsurial torment on that barber’s chair. But what could I do? Once they have secured that black protective cape around your neck you are at the entire mercy of the barber’s whim. If a head massage is what the barber wants to do a head massage is what you must accept. That’s the unwritten code of the haircutting fraternity. Dishonour it at your peril.
The barber finished with a flourish of self-satisfied ruffling of what little hair I’d managed to retain, then scraped my bludgeoned scalp with what felt like a row of hot metal pins. He whipped off the cape like a Matador teasing a wounded bull.
I returned my glasses to my face and wobbled to my feet.
I’m sure he did a little bow. It was hard to tell, the room was blurry and still spinning at an alarming angle.
I pulled out my wallet and handed him a note. It was much more than the fee but I thought I’d best leave a memorable tip in case he had any other little surprises in store before I managed to escape.
“See you again, sir?”
“See you again,” I replied, banging my head dizzily on the doorframe on the way out.
I saw my reflection in the window. Nice cut, I said to myself.