L
ladywood
Guest
A Hair Cut in Monument Road
It was usually on a Friday after school, my mother would walk with me to the barbers on Monument Road "Short back and sides please." She'd say, then leave me to get on with her shopping and the barber to get on with me.
"Sit up here on the chair." The barber would say, staring at my head.
I sat on a board that was laid across the arms of the barber's chair so that my head was high enough my hair to be cut.
With a comb and scissors he started to cut my hair.
Snip, snip, snip.
The barber was a middle aged man with wavy slicked back greying hair that had little curls at the ends. He had long sinewy arms that ended in long bony fingers.
His nose was very long and under it was always a half smoked cigarette. The smoke curled up past his nose past his squinting eyes over his forehead, through his hair and in a blue spiral up to the brown ceiling on which was a bare neon strip light.
He would, with his lips firmly gripping his cigarette, breath heavily through his nose coughing a little as he concentrated.
Snip, snip, snip, snip.
In the mirror I would watch the ash on the cigarette get longer, sloping as the weight of the ash got heavier. I waited for the point when a suppressed wheezy cough was enough to dislodge the ash onto the floor.
Nothing broke his concentration. The end of the cigarette glowed for a brief moment, some new ash was added and with a small push of my head to the left or right he continued cutting
Snip, snip.
The walls of the barber's shop were lined with simple cane chairs and the men who had come in after me, acknowledged the barber with a nod of the head. They sat down in a weary way waiting their turn [sometimes lighting a cigarette] and picked up a well-fingered paper from the collection of old magazines and newspapers left on a chair.
There was always a copy of the Daily Mirror, The Reveille with its pictures of girls with large busts in shorts. Sunday's News of the World. There was always a horse racing paper.
Snip, snip. Cough. Snip, snip.
On the wall was a calender with a picture of horses jumping over a fence. The comb would move up the side of my head with scissors in pursuit. The barber would twist my head to a new position that I would try to hold as long as possible. My head would be pushed forward as he snipped around the back.
I'd examine the clippings of my hair to pass the time.
Then I'd start comparing it to the other clippings from other heads that had fallen around the chair.
Snip, snip, snip, snip.
In the mirror I could see the top of my head my hair sprouting like a carrot top. The hair that had been on the sides was now no more than stubble.
How much more could he take off? A lot more.
He put down the scissors and with his free hand he lit a new cigarette from the stub of the old one, picked up the electric clippers, pushed my head into another position and continued to remove more hair. I could feel the vibrations from the electric clipper going through my skull. More hair fell into my lap.
A tap dripped into the sink in front of me onto hair clippings stuck to the basin. Lying next to the tap was an open razor with a black handle.
Above the razor was a glass shelf with small bottles of blue liquid that promoted hair growth. They were always there, they were never moved, I don't think they were ever opened.
Above the shelf there was a black and white poster with the word Brylcream in red. The cut out head of Dennis Compton smiled down at me. His hair with a neat parting was plastered down with Brylcream. My father's hair, my brother's hair, my uncle's hair all were plastered with the same white grease called Brylcream. I would get a dollop shortly.
Now there was no hair to speak of left on my head, except for a couple of spikes at the top. The barber put his hand into a large jar of Brylcream and rubbed it into my scalp. With the comb he pulled the few strands of hair down flat, then held up a mirror to show me the damage. He took a puffer and sprayed the back of my neck with a great cloud of talcum powder. Most of the powder would find its way down my neck.
My mother came in to take me home. "Perfect !" she said.
It was usually on a Friday after school, my mother would walk with me to the barbers on Monument Road "Short back and sides please." She'd say, then leave me to get on with her shopping and the barber to get on with me.
"Sit up here on the chair." The barber would say, staring at my head.
I sat on a board that was laid across the arms of the barber's chair so that my head was high enough my hair to be cut.
With a comb and scissors he started to cut my hair.
Snip, snip, snip.
The barber was a middle aged man with wavy slicked back greying hair that had little curls at the ends. He had long sinewy arms that ended in long bony fingers.
His nose was very long and under it was always a half smoked cigarette. The smoke curled up past his nose past his squinting eyes over his forehead, through his hair and in a blue spiral up to the brown ceiling on which was a bare neon strip light.
He would, with his lips firmly gripping his cigarette, breath heavily through his nose coughing a little as he concentrated.
Snip, snip, snip, snip.
In the mirror I would watch the ash on the cigarette get longer, sloping as the weight of the ash got heavier. I waited for the point when a suppressed wheezy cough was enough to dislodge the ash onto the floor.
Nothing broke his concentration. The end of the cigarette glowed for a brief moment, some new ash was added and with a small push of my head to the left or right he continued cutting
Snip, snip.
The walls of the barber's shop were lined with simple cane chairs and the men who had come in after me, acknowledged the barber with a nod of the head. They sat down in a weary way waiting their turn [sometimes lighting a cigarette] and picked up a well-fingered paper from the collection of old magazines and newspapers left on a chair.
There was always a copy of the Daily Mirror, The Reveille with its pictures of girls with large busts in shorts. Sunday's News of the World. There was always a horse racing paper.
Snip, snip. Cough. Snip, snip.
On the wall was a calender with a picture of horses jumping over a fence. The comb would move up the side of my head with scissors in pursuit. The barber would twist my head to a new position that I would try to hold as long as possible. My head would be pushed forward as he snipped around the back.
I'd examine the clippings of my hair to pass the time.
Then I'd start comparing it to the other clippings from other heads that had fallen around the chair.
Snip, snip, snip, snip.
In the mirror I could see the top of my head my hair sprouting like a carrot top. The hair that had been on the sides was now no more than stubble.
How much more could he take off? A lot more.
He put down the scissors and with his free hand he lit a new cigarette from the stub of the old one, picked up the electric clippers, pushed my head into another position and continued to remove more hair. I could feel the vibrations from the electric clipper going through my skull. More hair fell into my lap.
A tap dripped into the sink in front of me onto hair clippings stuck to the basin. Lying next to the tap was an open razor with a black handle.
Above the razor was a glass shelf with small bottles of blue liquid that promoted hair growth. They were always there, they were never moved, I don't think they were ever opened.
Above the shelf there was a black and white poster with the word Brylcream in red. The cut out head of Dennis Compton smiled down at me. His hair with a neat parting was plastered down with Brylcream. My father's hair, my brother's hair, my uncle's hair all were plastered with the same white grease called Brylcream. I would get a dollop shortly.
Now there was no hair to speak of left on my head, except for a couple of spikes at the top. The barber put his hand into a large jar of Brylcream and rubbed it into my scalp. With the comb he pulled the few strands of hair down flat, then held up a mirror to show me the damage. He took a puffer and sprayed the back of my neck with a great cloud of talcum powder. Most of the powder would find its way down my neck.
My mother came in to take me home. "Perfect !" she said.
