Christmas Haircut

It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas
Everywhere you go ...

And what I dread the most at this time of year is the obligatory visit to the barber's/hairdresser's to have my haircut. 

Why is it that I have to look smart at Christmas? Is it a written rule or law somewhere that we should dress nicely to go to church or to parties at Christmas, and that we should look particularly presentable?

I reckon I look smart and wonderful all of the time and need not to take particular attention to my appearance at Christmas or at any other time. As my aunt used to tell me, "I am a sex symbol for women who do not care!" ... whatever she meant by that.

There are many reasons why I do not like to go to the hairdresser. At Christmas or at any other time.

I usually cut my own hair. I stand in front of a mirror and with a pair of scissors ... snip ... snip ... all done. Front ... back ... sides ... and I'm OK ready to go once again.

Admittedly this has caused many an argument at home  but then ... well ... I'm sure you understand my dislike of barbers.

For a start I hate people touching me. Same when I go to the doctor's or see a nurse. But at least then it is out of some necessity or other. At the barber's it's different.

He sits you there and leans you back in the chair. Puts an over sized napkin round your neck as if you're a baby. Touches your hair and makes inane and insulting comments; like "who cut your hair the last time?"

I make some mumbling comment that I went to the barber's when travelling on business.

He then asks, "How would you like your hair cut?"

I remember once I was in a hurry to leave, so I looked at the barber and said, "cut my hair like yours!"

He took his electric machine and cut my hair totally off ... almost bald I was ... I protested and asked him what he was doing. This looks nothing like his haircut. He replied, "Yes it is ... but my hair has grown since I last cut it!"

On another occasion I needed my beard shaved. I remember staying very still and very afraid as the sharp blade reached my throat. Then, from the corner of my eye, I saw an ear on the floor amongst all the cut hairs.

"Look here," I said, "look here, there's an ear over here. On the ground ... whose ear is it?"

He replied, "touch it ... if it is still warm it is yours!"

I asked my hairdresser once whether there are courses you have to attend to be a hairdresser. He said he was self-taught. It's easy he said, also being a gardener beforehand and cutting hedges gave him all the practice he needed.

Another thing I hate about hairdressers is their need to talk whilst cutting your hair. Why can't they just get on with their job so I can leave quickly?

They like to criticise your hair ... it makes them feel in control ... "oh ... you have split ends dear ... what shampoo do you use? It dries your hair no end ... Do you ever dye your hair? You're beginning to show a bit of grey on the temples you know ..."

I feel like giving him a piece of my mind, but at the time, sitting there, I feel vulnerable and with no mind at all.

What business is it of his what shampoo I use? I'll have you know it's very expensive at three bottles for $1. And no ... I never dye my hair ... well ... sometimes I use a bit of that black liquid my wife uses for her hair and I touch the sides of my head with an old paint brush.

And I wish he'd stop calling me dear ... or my darling. Why does he have to be so familiar? I am here purely on a business transaction. He cuts my hair. I pay and leave. I have no desire to meet strangers and make friends.

And another thing ... why do hairdressers feel the need to ask about your holidays?

I remember once a hairdresser asked me, "have you been on holiday?"

I knew he was Catholic because I had seen him in church a few times although I did not know what job he did. I had gone to a new hairdresser's shop in town and to my surprise there he was. So I frequented his establishment a few times to send some business his way.

"Oh yes ..." I replied, "I have been to Rome. I went to the Vatican and met the Pope. I had an audience with the Pope and met him in his Pope Room!"

As a good Catholic, he was most impressed. He wanted to learn more.

"Really?" he asked, "you met His Popiness the Pope? What did he say to you?"

I hesitated and then said, "he said, tell me who cut your hair so badly and I'll get your money back!"

My hairdresser stopped sharpening his razor for a moment and then asked, "And did you tell him?"

I never went there again.

Oh ... one more thing I hate about going to the hairdresser's is when they offer to wash your hair. You lie on your back in your chair and they put your head in this urinal ... (NOTE: any ladies who do not know what a urinal looks like ask the man in your life to describe it!)

As you're lying there on your back feeling really vulnerable they wash and shampoo your hair and dry it with an industrial strength air flow machine connected to a jet engine.

I really hate it ... I hate it when they touch me ... when they cut my hair ... when they make inane insulting comments criticising me and my appearance. I hate it all.