5 Things I Hate About Hair Cuts

Yesterday I went for a haircut.

I went to a barber rather than a hairdresser because I like to think of myself as a proper man. And proper men go to the barber's.

In fact there is absolutely no difference between a barber and a hairdresser in terms of what they can do. Anyone is allowed to cut hair, wax bottoms, singe scalps and take people's money for it without any qualifications whatsoever. And anyone can call themselves a barber, hairdresser or stylist - which title you choose has more to do with how camp you are than what services you offer.

But even though I know there is no real difference, I still prefer a barber. Because I am a proper man.

Traditionally, the British Barber has always been a jack of all trades. A few centuries back, barbers could pull teeth, apply leeches, give enemas, and saw off troublesome limbs. These days they mainly confine themselves to cutting hair, making small talk and dreaming up amusing names for their premises.

Anyway, to celebrate the tradition of the Great British Barber, here are 5 things I hate about going for a haircut.

1 Barbers' Shops Have Stupid Names

Barbers are in a class of their own when it comes to giving their businesses stupid names. They usually involve some kind of crap pun, like The Hairport or Hair Today Gone Tomorrow. I came across one in Birmingham recently called Head Cases. Why would you want to have your hair cut by a head case? What the hell were these crazy Brummies thinking?

But my favourite is in the place where I was born – Billinge, near Wigan. It’s called Villagehairs. I think it's a pun on the word "Villagers". Unfortunately, the pun only works if you say it with a Billinge accent – Vill-ige-uurrs.

A much cooler approach is to give your Barber’s shop an American sounding name, and my local barber's has done just that. They have called it The Men’s Room. That's the American phrase for "Toilet". You might not think that’s very cool. But imagine if they’d stayed with a more English phrase. The Shitter, for instance. It simply wouldn’t have had the same appeal.

2 How do you want it?

I'm a 41-year-old, straight, Northern male.

I don't know how I want it.

However you cut it, I'm not going to turn into Robert Pattinson.

So just cut some of it off and let me go home.

3 Looking at myself in the mirror

I don't like to be reminded that I’m getting older. I usually overcome this difficulty by never looking in a mirror unless I really have to.

But at the barber's I have to sit in front of a mirror for a full twenty minutes with my big fat pasty face staring back at me.

When I was younger, nobody warned me that my face would inflate. Nobody prepared me for that night when I gazed out of the window, admiring the full moon, only to realise it was actually my reflection in the glass.

As a teenager, I enjoyed trying to chat up a young female hairdresser. But not any more. It’s hard to get flirtatious with someone who is shearing a thick clump of fuzz out of your ears.

4 Product

"Do you want product on it?"

Product? What kind of product? Rice Krispies? A TV set? A Ford Mondeo?

When I was young it was called hair gel. But these days they just call it "product". It's as if even they don't know what's in it. They don't like to commit themselves. And the strange thing is that the less specific they are, the more expensive it seems to get.

No I don't want product. Just dust me off with that giant floppy brush and I'll be on my way.

5 Too Many Questions

In order to be a hairdresser, you have to be a nosey bugger.

“Are you going away this year? Where you going? Have you been before?”

How is it any of their business? Anyone would think they were conducting a survey. They should have a clipboard and a badge.

“Are you working? What do you do?”

What? Who are you? The DSS?

Next thing he’ll be on the phone to the Benefits Fraud Helpline.

So that was it. I got my haircut. I ought to write an amusing end to this but I haven't got time. Goodbye.