write.as/jonbeckett

Over the last few days my hair had crossed the line from “vaguely presentable” to “that man looks a bit weird”, so I drew a rectangle between 9 and 10am on the Outlook calendar at work, and titled it “Hair Cut”.

There are two places I generally get my hair cut in town – one used to be the “place to go” for younger men, staffed by toothsome young wenches, and the other used to be a “bit more exotic” – with a Parrot, and more expensive looking (but still obviously employment-law-breakingly pretty) staff.

The “place to go” has slowly changed over the years. The girls that used to work there have slowly disappeared – no doubt because they were paid the minimum wage – and been replaced by a grumpy opinionated guy, and a very pretty mid-30s woman that knowsshe is pretty enough to cause most guys to trip over their words talking to her.

The Parrot place no longer has a parrot, but it does have the young girls cutting your hair. This might sound fine, until you realise you're taking your life in your hands – because half of them have probably scraped through the requisite experience needed before being unleashed on the unwitting public. Being honest, what do you expect for 14 at 9 in the morning? I have a strange attachment to the place because a Mum of one of our youngest's friends works in there. She's pretty too – notice a theme with hair salons? (or maybe I just think all women are pretty?)

Technically, there is another place in town that cuts hair – the sort of place my Mum used to take me when I was little – staffed by an elderly gentleman wearing a white smock, who stands gazing from the window most days as I pass by. It's a traditional barbers shop, as you see in photos of towns over a hundred years ago. I can't help wondering if people go in to get their hair cut, and come out in freshly cooked pies.

Anyway.

I chose the ex-parrot shop. A lovely blonde lady cut my hair, who it turns out had just found out she was pregnant with a little girl. I have a knack for people telling me their life story without me asking. We talked about all sorts of things, right up until she cut my fringe, and suddenly I was reminded of the many journeys on the London Underground when pretty business women would fall all over you in the middle of a crowded train – and you had no way of avoiding them. For a tense few minutes while she cut across my forehead, elbows high in the air, leaning across my face, I didn't know where to look, or what to say. You can imagine the scene – I'm not going to get thatgraphic.

I have a secret theory. I think girls who know they have a pretty good body have far fewer problems either leaning against, or presenting themselves than the people they might unwittingly corner. Their unfortunate victims turn themselves inside out, worrying that they're going to touch somewhere they shouldn't, or be seen to “see” something they shouldn't.

Maybe it's just me that worries about this rubbish. Maybe I should have looked.