All men dread haircuts. There are very few things men can be asked to do on a Saturday afternoon (at least garden centres are OUR TURF) that provoke such a sense of dread and impending doom. They are uncomfortable, awkward and considerably distressing. Whether it’s the local barbers, a plain old hairdressers, or even if you’re incredibly brave and booked an appointment with a ‘stylist’, nothing is plain-sailing when getting a haircut. Nothing.
Going into a mens’ hairdressers, for the uninitiated or female amongst you, is an odd experience. You have to wait and you get asked ‘who’s next’ and most of the time you’d really like to go ‘oh well it’s me’ when it’s not. You can’t make eye contact even though there are mirrors everywhere, and you could read one of the twenty copies of The Sun that are around but the elbows would be all over the place and really it’s just all very uncomfortable.
Eventually it’s your turn (one last check just to make sure you didn’t come in after a midget or someone you thought was a man’s wife but is actually just another man) and you sit in ‘the chair’. They ask what you want, and even though the most masculine thing would to go ‘just a haircut, love’, we’ve progressed, you know, socially. ‘We’ have created this number system to give a benchmark for hair length everywhere. I’m air-quoting the ‘we’ because this is not the usual, collective ‘we’ meaning ‘me, you and us lot’, but ‘we’ here indicates only the hairdressers You see, we (me, you and us) don’t actually know what these numbers mean. We do our best to understand, and by our best, I mean we all say ‘a number 2 round the back and sides and a bit longer on top’. Continue reading