hair port waiting rooms

Could somebody please tell me what a hair sanctuary is. Maybe it is a place of solace where the hairs shorn off at the nearby salons flee in order to avoid further abuse. Maybe, while they are taking refuge, people in silly hats come by in open top Landrovers and take photos of them in their natural habitat while naturalists study them for their PhDs.

I, as a County Antrim man, am of the opinion that you should call a spade a spade and a hairdresser a hairdresser. In my thirty years I have seen them called many things – hairdressing salon, hair spa, hair stylists, hair technicians, hair creators – and that’s before we begin with the awful puns they use to name their shops:

Mane Attraction, The Director’s Cut, Lunatic Fringe, Mean Streaks, Curl up and Dye, Deb n’ Hair, Hi-de-Hilites, A Cut Above, Hair Port, Talking Heads,The Cutting Room, Shear Delight, Short Cut

I could go on… but I like having the will to live so I won’t. I wouldn’t trust the little remaining hair I have to any of them. When I get sheared I look for somewhere that knows what the whole package involves. I look for an old fashioned Barber’s Shop that looks like an old fashioned Barber’s Shop with a couple of old fashioned Barber’s chairs and an old fashioned Barber. I’m sure that women are incredibly good at cutting hair – I’m sure that they are every bit as talented as men with the scissors and clippers; but only a man understands what men want when they are having their hair cut – and “So going anywhere nice for your holidays?” isn’t part of it.

The visit to the Barbers must consist of the following.

· The shop should be named either after the owner or simply called ‘The Barber Shop’.
· A red and white spinning pole thing must be visible outside to show that they have read and complied with these rules.
· There will be a squeaky door which requires just a little more force than it should do to open.
· There should be a musty odour of smoke, leather and hair dressing oil. Tea and/or coffee must not be offered to customers as this might distort the smell.
· There should be one bald apron clad operator plus an optional younger apprentice. They should be wearing shirts and (preferably) ties.
· Two men should be waiting, reading newspapers and nodding sagely at comments made by the Barber to his current client. One of these men may not be a customer at all – he will come almost daily to get away from his nagging wife. He may have a dog with him.
· Conversation must revolve around local politics, sport and the weather – nothing else. I repeat nothing else. No holidays, no clothes, no celebrity, no diets. Conversation about choice of hair cut will be restricted to single syllables and grunts.
· All conversations should involve everyone in the shop. One on one conversation should be discouraged at all times unless there are no other customers in the shop and the apprentice has popped out on an errand.
· The majority of the actual hair cut will be done with clippers that have been in service longer than London Routemaster buses. Then finished off with scissors.
· No hair cut should ever take more than twenty minutes.Anyone requesting a haircut which will take more than twenty minutes, or involving colour, should be regarded with suspicion by proprietor and other customers alike.
· Choice of hair product should range from wax to gel – requests for anything outside this range should be regarded in a similar fashion as above.
· The cost of services must not exceed £10. Overall costs may only break this limit with other services such as shave and wash are included.

I have sought out establishments abiding by these rules for years, and while I may never have been the most fashionable man about town I have always been satisfied with the service I have received. No awkward conversations about things I know nothing about, no indecision about choice of cut, no worry about what is actually being rubbed through my hair at the end.

Recently however I walked into a local shop which seemed legit, only to find it was being run by a woman! I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t walk out again – that would be rude – and I really needed to get my hair cut as I was beginning to look like a thug. Luckily she abided by each and every one of the rest of the rules to the letter and I was soon able to forget she was a woman.

The young man she was working on when I entered looked like a tough sort of a fellow. Real rough looking face and tattooed arms. She was giving him a number 2 all over which didn’t lessen the image. As she worked the clippers she discussed the new parking restrictions in force outside her shop.

“Doesn’t affect me – I can’t drive.”

“Sure did I not see you out driving not that long ago?”

“Aye, but I lost my licence.”

“What for? Were you going too fast or something?”

“No it was drunk driving.”

Shocked gasp from the old man with the dog.

“Ah, now that’s not on, is it? What are you doing to your poor ma and da? How do you think they felt when they heard that now?...”

And on she went giving this six foot twelve bruiser a dressing down like he was a naughty school kid (have you ever noticed how naughty school kids don’t actually act the way we say naughty school kids do? – but that’s a side issue.) I was in awe of this woman – she had him under complete control – he was shamefaced, seemingly close to tears, full of remorse. The chances are (and this is going to be pure conjecture) he didn’t show that level of regret in front of the judge.

If I could bottle what she had I could have my pupils under my thumb all day long – even after lunch when they’ve been stuffing e numbers and sugar down their throats. Of course it may have been the fact that she had a very sharp pair of scissors inches from his neck.