For 13 years I'd been getting my hair cut at the same place, by the same guy. It was only when he'd asked me randomly 'How long have I been cutting your hair now?' that we realized it had been that long. After so many years, this was the first time we'd actually had a conversation which went beyond 'What would you like?' 'Point 5, shape the edges'. I'd told him my name. We laughed. We joked. He told me he valued me being a customer of his for so long. I told him I trusted no one else to cut my hair. Fast forward 6 months, somebody else is cutting my hair. I've cheated on my barber.
The affair began on a crucial week of my hair looking a state. I needed it cut. But every time I went to his shop, it was closed. I was in a panic. My hair was looking unwieldy. My sex appeal was HP 0. I had no idea what to do. I couldn't sleep. I couldn't think straight. I bought myself a clipper set and a pair hairdressing scissors to consider cutting my own hair - downloading PDF's and watching YouTube videos on 'How to cut your own hair'. This seemed like a good idea at a bad time, but the shame of fucking up my hair (despite how ridiculously fast it grows back) was one I was not willing to shoulder in public. Growing tired of waiting for my barber to be bothered to open his shop and not wanting to take things into my hands in the utterly literal sense, I took a wander on a street where I knew there were several barber shops, which I've appropriately termed 'Barber street'. I walked slowly past one in particular. Not too busy. Staff who looked miserable, but attentive and look as though they are there to actually cut hair and not talk shit with their black, saggy jeans, Beats by Dre wearing friends who are occupying 90% of the seats whilst customers are being made to stand. It was offering hair cuts cheaper then the rest of the 'Barber street', but it was a dire looking shop. But before I could walk on and act like I wasn't considering stepping onto the premises, one of the barbers caught my eye. This was it. We'd made eye contact. A non verbal agreement had been signed. I had to step inside and let this man cut my hair.
I was prepared for this to go awkwardly. For this to go horribly wrong. Not as horribly wrong as if I'd cut my hair myself. But still to go wrong. But he did it. He cut my hair. He cut it and I liked it! I really liked it. He'd cut it better and faster than my 13 year strong barber! And as I stood looking in the mirror at the handiwork, I knew It was over. He wouldn't know it now, but after 2 months of not seeing me, the old barber would know he'd been served papers. We'd divorced. I had a new man in my life to cut my hair.
The affair began on a crucial week of my hair looking a state. I needed it cut. But every time I went to his shop, it was closed. I was in a panic. My hair was looking unwieldy. My sex appeal was HP 0. I had no idea what to do. I couldn't sleep. I couldn't think straight. I bought myself a clipper set and a pair hairdressing scissors to consider cutting my own hair - downloading PDF's and watching YouTube videos on 'How to cut your own hair'. This seemed like a good idea at a bad time, but the shame of fucking up my hair (despite how ridiculously fast it grows back) was one I was not willing to shoulder in public. Growing tired of waiting for my barber to be bothered to open his shop and not wanting to take things into my hands in the utterly literal sense, I took a wander on a street where I knew there were several barber shops, which I've appropriately termed 'Barber street'. I walked slowly past one in particular. Not too busy. Staff who looked miserable, but attentive and look as though they are there to actually cut hair and not talk shit with their black, saggy jeans, Beats by Dre wearing friends who are occupying 90% of the seats whilst customers are being made to stand. It was offering hair cuts cheaper then the rest of the 'Barber street', but it was a dire looking shop. But before I could walk on and act like I wasn't considering stepping onto the premises, one of the barbers caught my eye. This was it. We'd made eye contact. A non verbal agreement had been signed. I had to step inside and let this man cut my hair.
I was prepared for this to go awkwardly. For this to go horribly wrong. Not as horribly wrong as if I'd cut my hair myself. But still to go wrong. But he did it. He cut my hair. He cut it and I liked it! I really liked it. He'd cut it better and faster than my 13 year strong barber! And as I stood looking in the mirror at the handiwork, I knew It was over. He wouldn't know it now, but after 2 months of not seeing me, the old barber would know he'd been served papers. We'd divorced. I had a new man in my life to cut my hair.