21st July, 2009 - Barber! Weave Your Subtle Magyk

I used to quite enjoy going to the hairdressers. If you go to Yours Faithfully in Hamilton, for a cut and blow dry there is a fair chance that you would get a pleasing scalp massage from Deirdre the trainee, a nice cup of coffee and a wee chat about the pluses and minuses of a self-catering apartment in Malaga with Liz, the girl who gets to cut the blokes’ hair.

These days though, it is less of a pleasure. Because, you see, getting your hair cut is one of the only times as a man that you have to st in front of a mirror and ponder your own face for half an hour. Women, of course, do this at least four times a day anyway, so the shock is less for them. But, as a bloke, you only do this about four times a year, so, the haircut is the point where you examine the reality of your own sagging and tired features.

Not even the cunning cut of Liz’s crimping shears will restore my lost youth. Not even a dapper point to my sideburns will return me to my prime. All that lies ahead is an ever smaller pile of ever whiter hair around the barber’s chair.