Half cut...

You know I got to wondering at the weekend about the fact that there’s a sign at the barber’s shop where I get my hair cut simply saying ‘Liar’s corner.’

What I was wondering of course was, if the guy who trust to cut my hair on a regular basis is really a barber at all?

I mean wouldn’t that be horrible – going to a barber’s shop for years and then discovering that the person who has been moving sharp implements around your head is really not a barber but something else like umm, say a photographer or a taxi driver.

Think about it for a minute – you’re not going to just plop yourself in a chair and let any old nut move sharp objects around your head now are you?

I suppose that is what makes getting your hair cut in a new place one of the most frightening experiences you can have.

After all - if you end up going somewhere new for a haircut - there is always the tendency to imagine the worst possible scenario.

On the one occasion in recent years when I went out of convenience to a different place in another town, I must say things were pretty scary.

For a start I spent a good five minutes searching the walls for evidence of diplomas and awards, which I thought might comfort me. 

I’m not really sure why because in the barbers shop I normally go to there is only one certificate as far as I can recall – certifying that this is Liar’s corner. There’s also a photo of Elvis getting his hair cut by the barber’s granddad with one of the sets of clippers he still uses now…. and you were wondering why there was a Liar’s Corner sign?

You know what though, despite all that I’m still comfortable there.

On my only visit in recent years to a different place, after scanning for certificates I spent the rest of the time checking that there was no visible evidence of large boxes of plasters or bandages in view.

After all in my worst ever barber’s experience (when I was about seven) I got the top of my ear clipped by an elderly man wearing triple glazing glasses.

As a result, years of bad haircuts by my sisters followed as I point blank refused to go back to the barbers until I heard that old guy had died.

That’s not to say that when I did start going back to a barber’s to get my hair cut that they were all works of art. 
In fact one place in Dublin when I was at college was absolutely woeful, but still managed to attract me in because, being a student noticed it was cheap! I should have known the reason for that was because they’d never get anybody in otherwise and my last visit there came after a guy came in and asked for too much off the front, not enough off the back and a cut on his left ear.

‘I can’t do that,’ said the barber.

‘Why not, you did it the last time,’ the guy replied!

Those memories all came flooding back as I stood just inside the door of this strange salon.

And, as I was busily searching for evidence of certificates and diplomas, I was also quickly perusing the ‘style’ posters on the walls.

I think the posters were to attract you to choose a certain style. To say these people have gained confidence from this new look.

Maybe they did, but these were not styles you’d see when you’d walk out that door again and into the street. Not the hair you’d see on ordinary people who can sometimes only give it a dash of water and quick comb and out the door with a piece of toast in their hand in the morning.

No these styles would require more than a comb and a hair dryer, more like NASA technology and a team of experts to get every strand in place.

These were styles that required time and effort and as I looked at them I started to wonder if I really needed to get my hair cut after all.

Maybe it would do for that extra few days until the weekend when the shop I was used to would be opened after all …it’s hard to beat the divvil you know…especially when he has never cut you…well not yet anyway!

Course after reading this all that might change, but hey at least I could always say then that I have something in common with Elvis!

Yep, I like burgers too….