Hair today.

Right now I really need a haircut. It’s become massive and unruly; a bit like Russia in the early 1900’s.

The reason I haven’t had it done is simple: I haven’t settled on where to go.

For the best part of thirteen years my hair was cut by the same man. He ran the barbershop on Redhill Road and I lived in the flat above it. We started out as just landlord and tenant – but pretty soon the convenience of a downstairs trim proved too alluring.

We used to spend a lot of our time talking about music. He told me how he was slowly, meticulously copying all of his vinyl onto CD, and then selling the original records via eBay. He also gave me a heads-up on a German website where you could download rare music legally for half the price of that in the UK; he had an eye for a bargain, that man.

The German for ‘bargain’ is Schnäppchen.

He knew that I was in a band - how could he not; I was often practising in the flat upstairs - and would ask me about the gigs that I was doing. Also, when either myself or my actor flatmate (also called Dave) cropped up in an advert, he’d always pass comment on it.

I saw him once in the Sun Runner – when it was still a real ale pub - and nearly didn't recognise him out of his trademark barber’s outfit (white shirt, black trousers and leather waistcoat). He shook my hand enthusiastically and asked whether I was out for a "late one".

I still made my monthly visit to The Barbershop, even after moving to the other side of town; I didn’t mind the half an hour walk there, though the half an hour walk back with newly-trimmed, unwashed hair was a little more embarrassing.

Whenever I called to book an appointment he'd always answer with the exact same tone and wording: “Hello, Barbershop". 

The constancy was almost comforting.

Towards the end he talked of how he was planning on buying a camper van; he'd hired one for a dry-run, and took it out for a week or so to see if he could get to grips with it. He'd also recently passed his motorcycle test - though an apparent fall soon put paid to any plans of being the next Evel Knieval.

The last time I saw him he obviously wasn’t well. The pain in one arm was so bad that he was barely using it. He was still the same as ever; laughing and joking with both me and his friends, who often popped their head into the shop whilst he was working for a quick catch-up.

A month passed before I phoned to book my next appointment. The call went straight to answerphone; there was a different voice on the other end of it.

I went to his funeral. The service was full of great stories, and his grandson - who he’d often boasted had the makings of a great drummer - did a reading.

After the service I stood in the car park waiting for my lift. My old neighbor Rob (who had run the Chinese Restaurant next to the barbershop) pulled his car up next to me and wound down the window.

"It's a sad day, isn't it?", he said.
"Yes", I replied. "Yes, it's a very sad day".

I'm still glad I went.

Ever since I’ve had my hair cut in a couple of different places. It’s not the same; the conversation doesn’t flow so freely – and now for the first time in years I have to consider how to express what I want. I'd never needed to do that before.

On that last visit to Redhill Road, after I'd paid up and picked up my jacket to leave, I turned in the doorway and wished him the very best. I said good bye, and that I hoped I'd see him soon. He thanked me, and joked that if I didn't, then I'd know the reason why. 

As I pushed my way through that door for a final time, I heard him say, "Don't waste time, Dave. You never know what's just around the corner".

I'll do my best, Jack.