Today, I did what
few people in their right mind would do: I had my hair cut by a trainee barber.
The problem with
the above statement is the word “trainee” encompasses a vast spectrum; they may
be on the cusp of receiving their barbers’ qualification (with the final E of
“trainee” about to slip back a single letter to spell “trained”) or that may
have had a single lesson before you climbed into the chair (the vital “They’re
called scissors” chat). There’s just no way of telling until a sizeable
percentage of your hair makes that final fateful voyage from head to floor,
and your tears have made a similar journey.
Now normally, if
you asked me the question, “Would you be happy for me to cut your hair though
I’m still in training?” on any given day, I’d scream, “Absolutely”, followed
by, “NO FUCKING WAY.”
For someone who
may appear to spend seconds on my barnet, I’m actually rather precious about
it; on the very few days I don’t wash it, I seek the cover of darkness to
prevent anyone from seeing me at my less-than-volumised best.
So what stopped
me from being true to form? Politeness. I’d only spotted the primitive
cardboard sign stuck to his mirror seconds earlier, and it just seemed easier
not to make a fuss. It probably didn’t help that somebody I knew walked into
the shop moments before, who is definitely the sort of person to brand me a
wuss unless I insisted the barber cut my hair with shears while blindfolded.
Thankfully, I
needn’t have worried, as (1) the guy in question didn’t do a bad job, and
(2) all his messiest snips were tidied up by the barber next to him, who knew
what he was doing; I feel I made a lucky escape. At least I didn’t wind up looking like Rowan Atkinson in The Black Adder. That would truly have
been terrible; thank God for small mercies (and straight razors).