Danger, Retribution, and Strawberry Chupa Chups

Well, we did it. Lockdown’s over, life’s back to normal and we can all head back to spoons again and enjoy a 5-course meal for £7.95. Happy days. Kind of. It still feels very much like lockdown in the fact that the most interesting thing I’ve done today was take a picture of some particularly interesting looking snails, and try to take a plug out of a sink without getting my hand wet, which I kind of managed. And they say living like this gives people too much free time.

But fear not, I have also used my time productively. I’ve been thinking about the opportunities that lockdown’s actually presented, and I think it’s been an ideal time to swap around where you get your hair done. Because I’ll be honest, at this point I can’t even remember what socks I wore yesterday, so there’s no hope for hairdressers remembering everyone they usually see. And you do need a good excuse for something like that, more for your own conscience than for the fear that Shirley from WonderCuts will kick your door in at half 3 in the morning and do you in like a modern day Sweeney Todd, just because you changed it up and popped into Shears of Joy down the road.

I remember when I cheated on my first barber, something I still blame my brother for roughly 3 years later. I remember driving past on the way to have our haircut somewhere else, feeling like an accessory to some awful crime, like some filthy barber tart spreading my short back and sides all over town. I could feel his eyes watching me from behind his novelty curtains, decorated with pictures of razors and beards, his cold face silhouetted in red, and then white, as his barber pole spun above the door. I couldn’t relax as I sat in the chair of some other barber, trembling in fear and shame, checking the door every few seconds in case my regular barber appeared there, shaking his head slowly as a single tear rolled down his face and I desperately tried to explain, to say how sorry I was, through the double- glazed window. My head was flying from side to side like Michael Flatley on speed as I scanned the street outside, so much so that my new barber nearly cut my ear off as he trimmed my sides, which would have been suitable punishment, retribution for my dirty crimes. I expected the swat team to screech up outside, lights flashing as I handed over my money. I was a nervous wreck. Even a chupa chups lolly from the jar on the counter couldn’t calm me down. I didn’t sleep for weeks. When I did, my dreams were full of spinning chairs and red and white poles, giant pairs of scissors that chased me down, chanting about my shame. I could barely live with myself.

But then, unbelievably, a few months later I did the same again. Perhaps it was because I hadn’t had time to form a relationship this time, or maybe it was due to the fact that they were beginning to get suspicious about the volume of chupa chups that went missing after my visits. Whatever it was, though, I was off again, this time just over the road from my original barber. I couldn’t believe my own confidence. What had got into me? Those lollies must have had something in them. Whatever it was, though, now I’m faced with a conundrum. Where do I go back to? Do I take the shame and go back to my original barber, hoping for reconciliation? Do I concede to the promise of those little fruity lollies? Or do I just avoid the problem and never have a haircut again, and end up looking like Hagrid, with only a taste for danger and strawberry chupa chups? Only time will tell.