AT THE BARBER'S

New Zealand Listener, Volume 15, Issue 385, 8 November 1946, Page 12

AT THE BARBER'S

( Written for "The Listener" by

HELEN

WATSON

Be \ | R. B. won’t be long." "Thank you," I said, diving my nose back into a Constitutional History of England to overcome the suffocating smell of permanent waving. Mr. B. wasn’t long-only 20 minutes. When I had settled myself into his large uncomfortable chair, and suffered his attendant, smelling strongly of steriliser and lipstick, to tie me up in the usual sheet, I began to consider the best way of tackling Mr. B, I decided to make a

firm stand. It is always so difficult to persuade hairdressers to do what you want. "And how would you like your hair cut, Madam?" The "Madam" rather disarmed me, but after a while I got used to it. "I want an Eton crop," I said, and then I sighed because I could: see it wasn’t going to be easy. "Clipped well up the back here, and round here, and all this on the top off. I want it very short," I added firmly. "Strictly speaking, Madam, an Eton crop is not clipped up the back." "Oh, well, then," I said, "Whatever you call it, I want it clipped up the back." * Ea * ‘THEN he began jabbing my hair with a comb, like a farmer looking for ticks on a sheep. I consoled myself that at least he wouldn’t find any, But in spite of my confidence in the hygienic condition of my hair, I became a little uneasy when I saw the victorious look on his face. "The last person who cut your hair has hacked it about dreadfully,’’ he said. "It'll take some time to grow in, Madam," "Yes, I suppose so," I said. I did not let on that the last time it was cut, I had done it myself. "It is so difficult," I said, "to find a hairdresser interested in cutting hair. They are all so taken up with perms." "Madam, the foundation of a beauty salon is hair-cutting," and waving his comb in the air, like a picture of Canning addressing the English House of Commons, "I have been cutting hair in this city for the last 16 years: I looked duly impressed. * % * FTER an argument with one of the girls over whose rubber gloves those were in the drawer, Mr. B. returned with the clippers and worked steadily on the back of my neck for some time. I could see I was too low for him, for he was tall and had to bend nearly double. "Would you like me to sit on a higher chair?" I said. "No, it’s all right, Madam," he said. "Most of the work we do is on the top of the head, so we have to have low chairs." I pondered on this for a while and then I asked, "But how do you cut other people’s hair?" It struck me that most. hair didn’t grow upwards, so whatever the hair style, it would still have to be cut round the bottom. "You are unfortunate, Madam, in having your hair growing a long way further down the neck than most people." With. that he pulled out the collar of my dress and started clipping down my spine. I peeped anxiously at the mirror to reassure myself that I hadn’t turned into a. monkey. I considered volunteering the information that I, had hair growing down the front of my neck too, but I decided against it, for I knew he wouldn’t be able to resist the temptation of clipping that also. ee We lapsed into silence, while \ he clipped morosely on. I thought of the Italian barbers one reads «about, whose

conversations were so delightful. But all the same I was thankful for the silence. It was much better than some of the humdrum conversations many New Zealand hair-dressers try to carry on. * ok * HEN he finished clipping my neck, he started to trim the hair over my ears. ‘ "Madam," he said with something akin to horror in his voice, "you have more hair growing over your right ear than you have over your left." I began to feel alarmed. Quite obviously I was a freak: My hair grew further down my neck than anyone else’s. My right ear sprouted more hair than my left. In my anguish I gripped the history of the English constitution tightly under the sheet. I felt glad that I hadn’t told him about the hair on the front of my neck, and I vowed I never would. Mr. B.. grew more and more morose, and snapped angrily at my hair with the | scissors, like a man very tired of cutting the edges of his lawn. My morale was sinking, and when he asked me if it was short enough, I repeated my request for more off with much less than my original firmness. Mr. B. straightened his tall figure to its full length, and as though he were addressing the first female murderer he

had ever seen in his life, "Madam," he said, "Madam, this is the shortest I’ve ever cut any woman’s hair. This is a Beauty Salon. If you want your hair any shorter, you must go to a MAN’S BARBER." I could tell from the way he spoke that a "man’s barber" was the lowest creature on earth. I felt I had committed the dreadful sin of asking for sixpence worth of fish-and-chips at a leading draper’s shop. Cringing, I allowed him to brush powder down my closely clipped neck. And when he held the mirror up for me to see the back, I nodded dumbly. I didn’t dare to tell him it was only half as short as I usually have it cut. And as I climbed out of the chair, he added "Thank goodness I don’t get too many of you. I’m ten minutes late for my next customer already." Gladly I paid up twice the usual fees and fled. «