A
Barber Shop Quartet
By
Dominic Horton
On
Tuesday I asked myself the question, “what does a person have to do
to get a haircut in Halesowen?” When I worked in Birmingham city centre I used to get my haircut at a barber's shop close to the
office but far enough away from the city centre inner circle to not
charge an arm and a leg for a snip. The barbers there always did a
more than satisfying job but when the owner cut my hair I often felt
a little uncomfortable in the chair as there was always a mild
undercurrent of racism in the conversation, talk of immigrants, that
type of thing, but nothing overt enough to warrant a direct
challenge. And besides, getting into a confrontation with the bloke
cutting your barnet is never a wise idea as if you are not careful
you could end up with a haircut that is worse than Boris Johnson's,
which is a 'mare for a Mayor, if you will.
 |
The
London Mayor Boris Johnson having a bad hair day, as usual.
|
I
ventured out first thing Tuesday morning assuming the barbers shops
in Halesowen would be quiet at that time of day but I couldn't be
more wrong. The first barbers I went to was full with waiting
customers and I have not got the patience to sit and listen to the
drivel that is usually talked in a barber shop so I moved on to the
next one, which turned out to be equally busy. In barber shop
number three there were only two people waiting, so I sat down to
peruse the only reading matter, being the Halesowen
Chronicle, which
for a free newspaper is is vastly over priced. I didn't have a lot
of faith in the barber, who seemed to be barely out of his teens and
surly in nature but I thought I would risk it and give him a try. If
the haircut turned out to be a disaster I could always revert to the
fall back position of having my head shaved, which is a damage
limitation option generally not favoured by women, other than Sinead
O'Connor.
 |
Patricia
Routledge as Hetty Wainthropp,
poking her nose into other people's
business.
|
A
young child was in the barber's chair and he was not taken with the
idea of having a haircut and resultantly he screamed the place down
and repeatedly shouted to his mother, who stood next to him holding
his hand, “Mom, he's hurting me!”, which was not the case in the
slightest. The mother adopted a policy with the child that is softer
than the government's stance on executive bankers' bonuses as she
comforted him and said, “never mind dear it will soon be over my
love and you can have some sweets.” The mother must have mistakenly
thought that her son was having a tooth extracted without an
anaesthetic. It was the barber who deserved the confectionery for
his patience, especially as he lost my custom because after five
minutes I could put up with the commotion no longer and fled the shop
for a bit of peace and quiet.
Eventually
at barbers number four, which was not busy, I finally received a hair
cut and the lady barber did a thoroughly decent job too. But the
experience was not without difficulty as I had to sit interminably
through the barber's incessant psycho babble, which she delivered at
such a pace that I was amazed that she managed to breathe. She
periodically paused to conversationally ask me something but before I
could articulate the answer to her question she had once more
launched herself into her machine gun of words. I have to say that
I do admire people who can talk inconsequential prattle at great
length by effectively verbalising the stream of consciousness in
their heads and it is a desirable quality for a barber to possess.
After all, there is only one thing worse than suffering a lingual
battery from a barber and that is having your haircut in an awkward
silence.
Freshly
clipped, my next task for the day was to undertake a bit of amateur
detective work, Hetty Wainthropp style. The preceding Friday I was
in the big city on a rare excursion from the Flagon with the Pirate,
Harry Stottle, the Coarse Whisperer and Neddy La Chouffe when I
bumped into an acquaintance’s ex-girlfriend in the pub. We got
chatting and after a while it was established that we are both
singletons so I asked her out for a drink and she seemed keenly
receptive to the idea. I wrote down my mobile telephone number on a
scrap of paper forgetting that I had my card in my wallet containing
my contact details. I fully expected to receive a text message from
the lady in question in the near future but after a day no such
message was forthcoming. I then convinced myself that I had written
down my telephone number either incorrectly or illegibly; my
handwriting is not great at the best of times and we had drunk a few
by the time I scrawled my number down.
 |
Rudy
Youngblood as Jaguar Paw in the Mel Gibson
film Apocalypto, by
request of Toby In-Tents.
|
I
decided that I must post my correct phone number to the lady to put
the matter beyond doubt but although I know the street that she lives
on I did not know her house number or even her surname. After
investigation I discovered her surname and after providing her
details to the information bureau that is Willy Mantitt a house
number was produced. As I drove to her house I had sudden
reservations about the exercise thinking that it was a bit
stalker-ish and I remembered that there are now specific laws
regarding such matters. But I decided that I had nothing to lose
(except my liberty and my dignity I suppose) so I proceeded with the
mission.
Being
a Tuesday daytime I thought that she would not be in so I could
secretly slip the envelope through her door without a hiccup, which
turned out to be the case. Satisfied at my work I sat back and
waited for her text message to come through. And waited. And waited
some more. But I had no such luck. Clearly the lady had no
intention of meeting me for a drink in the first place and the scrap
of paper with my number on it probably ended up with the empty crisp
packets and fag ends in the pub's rubbish bin. So unlike Hetty
Wainthropp's cases there was no happy ending to this one. There was
no happy ending either for poor 82 year old Palmira Silva of Edmonton
this week as she was brutally murdered by a barbaric assailant who
savagely beheaded her in her own back garden, which was a dreadful
business all round.
 |
| Michael Caine as Lieutenant Gonville Bromhead in Zulu. |
I'm not too sure about the current fad of lobbing people's heads off. It all seems a bit barbaric and medieval to me. The head is a useful thing and without it there are all sorts of activities one cannot do; you would struggle to go for a pint in the Flagon & Gorses for a start. I know the Mayans of old were partial to the odd beheading (as depicted in Mel Gibson's wonderful but harrowing film Apocalypto) but it is something us modern day Britons have generally grown out of so we now take a dim view of it. When I heard reports of someone being headless in Islington I thought the Flagon's landlord, the Pirate, had lost the plot again [for non-Flagoners, the road up the side of the Flagon is called Islington - I am aware that gags lose their shine if you have to explain them, especially when the gag is a weak one in the first place.] Talking of the Pirate he has temporarily defected to Belgium for the weekend with Windy McDisco and the RAT's beer supping crew on a junket which will involve quaffing hearty strength beer, eating savoury food stuffs, upsetting the locals and farting. No change there then, as that is exactly what he generally does in the Flagon & Gorses.
The
Zulu warrior tribe are often thought of as being barbaric too but
they were a highly organised and efficient army of trained,
professional soldiers. Alexander Sutcliffe and I learnt this on
Thursday, the occasion of my 43rd birthday, at an
entertaining and informative talk entitled The Anglo Zulu War of
1879 by Max Keen at Dudley Archive Centre. As you can see, as
far as birthday celebrations are concerned I certainly know how to
rock. Keen has the look of Ken Dodd and he bought his talk to life
with the same energetic verve of his look-a-like, so he had all
attendees in thrall and it only cost £1.50, effectively the price of
half a pint of best bitter.
The
talk didn't drag on too long and Keen quickly put an end to the
questions from coffin dodgers in the audience, so there was still
plenty of time to enjoy a trip to the Flagon & Gorses, which no
birthday would be complete without, so in the end I am glad to report
that I got my happy ending after all.
©
Dominic Horton, September 2014.
*
EMAIL: lordhofr@gmail.com.
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