The Elasticity Of The Scalp

Following my previous experience at a barber shop and three more recent haircuts by the same bloke, I decided to change my barber. If you can't be bothered to read the previous post, to cut a long story short, I have frizzy hair which, when blow-dried, looks like a limp bouffant, if you can imagine such a thing. So, instead of a $12 haircut, I'm now the proud owner of a $10 haircut (just over three English pounds). Indeed, the barber shop window advert says "$10 for 10 minutes". That, I thought, seemed just the place for a guy like me. I hate sitting in that chair.

I need to recount my other haircuts at the old place before I tell you about the new place. The problem with the old place wasn't just the fact that he blow-dried my hair. I always ask for the same thing - a grade 2 round the sides and back and a trim on top. The second time I went, he did what I asked, but after blow-drying my hair, he told me that next time I should just ask for a trim. I shouldn't, apparently, ask for a grade two round the sides and back. So, some six months later, having had my hair cut in England (quite beautifully) in the interim, I went back and asked him for just a trim. He proceeded to get the clippers out and put the comb in between the clippers and my head, and I ended up with what amounted to a grade six, I suppose, all the way round, but slightly longer on top. And then, of course, he blow-dried it.

I went straight out to the toilets, which are about five doors down. This time I'd even taken some hair wax with me, so I ran the tap, put my bag onto the side of the sink, and started to undo it to retrive the wax. The door opened. In the mirror, to my horror, there was my barber.

"Just washing my hands," I said, making a great show of just washing my hands. He washed his, too (I suppose I could have been offended by this), then left. I spent the next few minutes cringing and waxing.

Of course, I couldn't possibly go back there. It has struck me since that there aren't any reasons why I would want to, even if this hadn't happened. I've since spoken to a friend about my experience of barbers blow-drying hair and he said, "Yes, they always try that with me, too. I just tell them not to."

Eureka!

I was determined to try this at $10 for 10 minutes.

My experience yesterday at $10 for 10 minutes wasn't without its embarrassing moments. You see, I know that you're supposed to have nice clean hair if you go to a barber, but if I wash my hair and don't put any wax in it (or "reshaper gum", which is what I use these days), it frizzes up and gets blow-dried by the wind on the way to the barber. So I tend to risk going to the barber with a day's worth of wax and dirt in it. They don't ever complain, but I always feel a bit uncomfortable about it (especially when the first thing the barber does after cutting my hair is wash his hands). Right at the start of my haircut, she was combing through my hair and then stopped to pick out a clump of matter. "Dried hair wax?" she asked.
"Yes," I lied.

In fact, the previous day I'd been making bread fajitas, you know, from scratch, with flour and water. I thought I'd picked it all out from my hair, but obviously not. Indeed, looking round my flat, I think it's going to be weeks before I've finally got rid of all traces of dough.

Anyway, she cut my hair, ignoring all the other dough she may have found (she only had 10 minutes, after all) and got to the end and started to pull this monstrous snake-like thing towards my head, which I assumed was some kind of new blow-dryer. I'd been building up to this moment for the entire 10 minutes of the cut. I'd been sitting there rehearsing the various ways of saying no to a blow-dry. Surprisingly assertively, with hand raised in a commanding gesture (although she couldn't see just how commanding the hand was, as it was covered by the sheet), I said, "No blow-dry, thanks!" to which she replied, "No. You need this. Hair very dirty."
"Oh, ok," I relented, my assertiveness having dissipated alarmingly rapidly. I resigned myself to finding a toilet as soon as I could and splashing it down with water again, whilst hoping I didn't bump into any pupils or friends while looking like Eraserhead.

I was relieved to discover that the monstrous snake-like contraption was a sucking device rather than a blowing device. Actually, I think the device is a larger version of that thing that dentists' assistants use, supposedly to suck out moisture from your mouth, but actually to give the inside of your mouth a good stretch when the assistant "accidentally" gets too close.

It goes without saying that my hairdresser did the same thing to my head. Although it felt unusual to have my scalp sucked - the skin around the skull has surprising elasticity - at least it hoovered up the dough. It also didn't make my hair any less greasy, so I went home looking unclean, but not ridiculous.

I think I'll make a suggestion to the good people at $10 for 10 minutes. They have video screens at each hair-cutting station, showing young people with fun haircuts having fun. Instead of this, they should have a countdown timer, with Countdown music. Or, in the last minute of the cut, the Ready, Steady, Cook! music should come on like it does in the last frenzied minute of cooking, and they should take a few last random snips at your hair in the last couple of seconds, throwing a sprig of wax on just as time is up.