I’ve got to be honest: lockdown wasn’t too bad for me. Maybe it was sheer novelty of it all, but the forced absences, the limited travel, the work disruption, days merging into one – I took them all in my stride. Lockdown was manageable. I coped with everything... except my hair.
My hair drove me to distraction.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not vain – although I won’t answer a knock at the door without first checking that my hair is tidy. I like it to be tidy. I wash it every day, condition it once a week and get it cut every four weeks. I have to get it cut every month: if I don’t, it really starts to irritate me.
During lockdown, with hairdressers closed, there were two options: let it grow, or cut it yourself. But I couldn’t let it grow: my hair was soon driving me up the wall, sitting on my head like a dead lump of thatch, weighing me down.
I invested (online, inevitably) in a set of electric hair clippers.
I thought my wife would have jumped at the chance to cut my hair, but to my surprise she was reluctant. I had imagined that the opportunity to attack my napper with a dangerous weapon would have been right up her street, but no; I had clearly misjudged her.
Anyway, after some persuasion she finally agreed – and her effort wasn’t half bad. It was neat and tidy and my only quibble was that she had maybe been too careful, too conservative, and hadn’t taken off quite enough.
So just a couple of weeks later I had to ask her to do it again. This time there was certainly more confidence and I got the feeling that, this time, it would be short enough.
She was clearly quietly pleased with her work and asked me to look in the mirror, but when I did I couldn’t hide my disappointment. Once again, neat and tidy... but once again, she had been too timid. With hindsight, I realise that my comments were perhaps slightly over-critical!
At my insistence, she had another go... and whether through irritation or an innocent slip, she zipped off a mighty chunk of hair, with an under-the-breath, ‘Oops!’ To cut a long story short, the clippers were quietly put away, never to see the light of day again; doubtless just like thousands of others all over the country.
I can imagine a future episode of Antiques Roadshow, with some posh bloke in a stripey blazer and clashing tie explaining, ‘Ah, yes. These objects – known as hair clippers – became hugely popular in the 21st century, particularly during the COVID-19 pandemic. They were produced in their millions by companies including Wahl and Remington. While mildly interesting as a piece of social history they are of little monetary value today. Tell me, is this a family heirloom?’
Or I picture a huge recycling centre, with huge mounds of hair clippers stretching as far as the eye can see…
Apologies, I digress. I’ve digressed a lot during lockdown…
I was delighted when restrictions eased at last and naturally my first port of call was my trusty barber. Jimmy Sweeney had been my barber for twenty years and he was the very man to rectify the damage: it had been some weeks but the home haircut accident was still all too visible.
You can imagine my despair to find that the upheaval of the pandemic had pushed my barber into retirement. After more than fifty years in the business Jimmy had hung up his scissors! I felt betrayed – it was almost personal! That man knew my heid like no-one else on earth!
Jimmy used to cut the hair of former world boxing champion Ken Buchanan back in the golden days. So where do you go when your “stylist to the stars” deserts you? The simple answer, for me anyway, was: anywhere!
My nearest salon was the Istanbul Turkish barbers. It was busier than I would have wished for social distancing safety, but some blokes were clearly just as desperate as I was. I saw a solitary space on a sofa so took my chances and grabbed it.
The latest government guidelines said hairdressers should operate an appointments only system, but it seems some salons had interpreted the guidance more freely than others!
After a short wait – there must have been seven or eight barbers working away – I was approached, ‘Do you have an appointment?’
I couldn’t lie... but I really needed that haircut. Behind the mask my face was beetroot. I didn’t answer.
The barber clearly understood my predicament, and sympathised. He looked at his watch. It was twenty past four.
‘Aye, your appointment is half four!’
Above the buzzing of the clippers and the snip-snip of the scissors I could just hear Pharrell Williams’ 'Happy' on the radio. I was ridiculously happy. Oh, the anticipation!
Within minutes I was seated in a barber’s chair, watching the hair tumbling down and only half listening as my new barber explained the difficulties he was having in a relationship in which his new partner had, it seems, the children from hell. In different circumstances I would have offered some sage advice, but not just now. I was savouring every snip.
It was over in minutes. I brushed the hair from my trousers, paid my new friend – I would have paid treble if he’d asked – gave him a decent tip (and suggested he give his relationship more time) then walked back out into the sunshine.
I ran my fingers through what was left of my hair – what a delicious feeling! Euphoria! I was literally light-headed!
And while I didn’t exactly skip all the way home, there was certainly a spring in my step!