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Saturday 13 January 2007

Barbershop Inertia [drdave]

I have Barbershop Inertia. I realised this at 8am this morning as I staggered, zombie-like, onto the local mass-transit system in order to travel all the way across south London to get my manly mane trimmed by a familiar face. I had no need to undertake this ill-advised journey of course. I could just as easily have gone to Bev's Barbers down the road, or the inviting looking place with the three jolly Italians around the corner. But I have Barbershop Inertia, so these convenient tonsorial artists are forever out of my reach.
What is it, I wonder, that causes such fervent loyalty to this most generic of professions? I will gladly cast aside a general practitioner when I relocate, and I have no qualms about securing the services of a more local dentist, but when it comes to the subject of my personal coiffeur I am resolutely single minded. I will happily write-off entire mornings, undertake lengthy and perilous Frodo-esque journeys, and hide my secret shame from family and friends in order to avoid the inevitable "you travel how far..? for that...!?" quizzical inquiry.
I could maybe understand it, perhaps, if I was blessed with a more flamboyant head of hair. But barber science has not yet advanced to the stage where anything remotely flighty could be done with my barnet. Indeed, my main success criterion from such a trip is that my hair is measurably shorter when I leave and I have no visible scars. Nothing more. No fanciful highlights, or sculpted peaks and troughs for me, no sir, just a trim and I'll be on me way.
I think my Barbershop Intertia comes from the fact that it is difficult to find a forgiving and ambitionless snipper. One not hindered by notions of rescuing a lost cause, one who is content merely to maintain and not create! schmoosh! or bedazzle! Many a brash young barber has battled for long hours with my curious crown, my wayward fringe and the inevitable parting, thinking that they among their peers would be the one to tame the untameable. All fail though. I believe it is that look of abject disappointment and disillusionment I wish to avoid. The metaphorical sigh, removal of rubber gloves and the exhausted utterance: "time of death: 0915, there's nothing more we can do here".
Am I alone here? Is anyone else inexplicably attached to an inconvenient barbershop?


  1. Sexual selection, what else?
    Like the peacock's feathers, your flowing locks are a badge of sexyness to the female population. You are therefore predisposed to take great care in the domain of the coiffure. Once you establish a trust relationship with your chosen chopper of locks it forms a deep bond.
    Going to anyone else is taking a big risk not be made into the subject of much double X chromosome tittering, and looking like a complete twatox.
    At one time I used to visit my hairdresser in Gloucester rather than get a local one in Exeter where I was at uni.

  2. I am one for the artists. Telling he or she with the scissor in her hand to be creative and make the cut that will suit me. But in the end going home with the usual spikes, and black/red dyed hair and big dissapointment.Years of agony it is been trying out several hairdressers just to find that after 2 weeks no shape or form can be recognized from the 2 hours you have spent in that place. Hairdresser science seems to come in all shapes and forms and allas mostly the exspensive ones seem to be able to rescue me from bad cuts.
    As the Doctor here is very much content with the quick snip and ambitionless barber, I am very happy to have finally found the hairdresser of my dreams. Inventive and brilliant in his cuts which last me about 3 months before I have to go back. And never one cut the same. Just the way I like it. Granted you pay a sum but its worth it.
    Now here comes in the inconvenience.... I have the goal to move from Holland to the UK. Sitting at my hairdresser some time ago, I was telling him of these plans, when a slight panic was detected. What would happen when I move with my hair? I do not want to give up this gem of a place.
    Once you have found the hairdresser or barber of your wishes, you stick with it. Reluctant to find another since he/she knows exactly what to do. It is a comforting thought. A familiar face who has not seen you in months but still remembers what you talk about several weeks ago. (Ofcourse women talk with their hairdressers.) And not worried in the slightest when he wields the scissor with professional accuracy. No need to ask or keep an eye on what he is doing.
    So with the risk of being declared utterly nuts for doing this... I have decided that once I am in the UK to go to my own hairdresser every time I will be back in Holland visiting my family. Having said that, this will ensure my mother of at least one visit every 3 months.
    So how is that for being attached. My hairdresser assured me I was not the only one.

  3. Hair is sooooooo 1990's

  4. I just get it cut wherever. When you're cursed with brillo pad like thinning curls it really doesn't matter too much of a monkeys.
    Wifeys pal opened up a shop, cutting crew, so I go to her now. Usually with kids in tow, she's the one glad not to scar me as I whirl aboot in the chair trying to keep the lads in check.
    For my actual haircut, I'm not overly bothered. I let the wife cut it with clippers a few times, but she forgot the guard at one point. I looked like I had alapoechia or something, I didn't mind too much bar it was cold on that side.
    All praise to you dave for taking such fine care of yourself, I'll admire this masterpiece at lurkan.

  5. I took exception to someone charging a tenner for a few mins largely unskilled work and I don't pay them a penny now. I've got an electric shaver, bish bash bosh. Must have saved a fortune.

  6. How could you not understand Daves fear of being made foolish by someone messing up his crowning glory.
    Years of sympatico required to give that look I'm sure.
    Will you become the next Eubank, driving an 18wheeler cab back to your barbers for a monthly trim? Or take your chances on the cold hard streets of the north..... the world needs to know.