The barber I usually go to locally has been taken over. I gave the new incumbents a try on my last hair cutting expedition. I was not pleased with the result. I honestly don’t think the pair now running the place could even shear a sheep, never mind make my meagre mop look halfway respectable.

The woman that did the cutting for me was equipped with a half dead battery operated clippers kept that looked like it had been through several wars. I’m sure there was a bit of masking tape holding it together and painted black. She kept asking me “is this ok” all the way through the cut. That doesn’t inspire confidence. A trained barber doesn’t ask that question until the end or maybe to ask if I want locks trimmed or whatever.

All the while, her partner was just sitting on the empty seat beside me, staring. I don’t think she was staring AT me, more through me. She didn’t look “the full shilling” to be honest. Maybe she was amazed at how bad a job her friend was doing and waiting for me to cop on.

I got a full 7 minutes of a haircut. When she asked “is that OK for you?”, I turned to her and said : “No, it’s fucking well not ok. My hair looks like shit and you are an incompetent buffoon.Did you only learn how to cut hair last night using a West Highland White Terrier for practice? I’m reporting you to the barbers association so you’ll get struck off. You’ll never work in this town again my good woman”. Well, that’s what I wanted to say, but instead I just nodded like a complete knobend and said “yeah, that’s grand”. To make matters worse, I tipped her as well. Force of habit. I just couldn’t help it.

So that was a few weeks back as I say. The hunt was on for a new barber on Saturday just gone. Headed out before 10 to seek one out. The first one I went to was on annual holiday, the second one had too much of a queue. The third one seemed just right. 2 in the chairs getting cut, nobody waiting. Bingo.

My turn comes and down I sit.

Mr. Barber : “What can I do for you?”

Me : “I’ll have a number 1 back and sides and a trim on top”

Mr. B : “A good neat trip on top I take it” (obviously referencing how shit my hair looked)

Me : “Yes, rub it in (forced laugh), I know it’s bad and needs a good cutting, thanks”

He proceeds to do his barbery things to prepare for the cut.

Then he asks : “So, are you heading to the match tomorrow”.

“Nah, I’m not”.

“No interest in it?”

“Ah, a passing interest maybe, but no real interest in sport to be honest”

Cut cut cut. Yammer yammer, random talk.

Me : “Funny enough, first time I was in Croke Park was for the U2 concert recently”

“Oh you’re one of them are you?”

“Jeez, gimme a break. I’m just not into GAA or sport – it’s not compulsory like”

“Ah, I had to get off the fence a few years back and get into sport when I started barbering. Need to be able to talk to guys when I’m cutting hair”.

“Oh right”

Cut cut cut. Yammer yammer yammer. Despite my lack of interest in sport, we were still able to talk though. I wonder did he find it amazing. I really hope he did and realise that sport is not the be all and end all of male conversations. There’s lots of things – like, eh, uhm – Jordan’s tits or last nights Top Gear or eh – well you know, loads of things.

I miss my old barbers though. I could go in and get a cut and not feel like I had to talk and the barber didn’t feel like she had to talk either. She was also easy on the eye and had a nice fragrance. I’ll probably go back to this new barber again. Maybe. Is 3 or 4 weeks enough time to be “up” on all things sporting?

The sky is darker now when the alarm goes off.

There’s a bit of nip in the bedroom air.

Snug has a different meaning.

Blankets resist movement with the help of supernatural forces and an all too easy to hypnotise mind.

On those mornings I like to switch on the bedside lamp, move the bulb close to my face.

Then closing my eyes, I imagine myself on a beach in the sun.

Image owned by anable [cc license]