Big City Haircut
My hair has become unruly, it is starting to protrude around my ears, which is frankly unacceptable and I have come to the decision that I need to shed my Braveheart locks, as I realise hair matted with mud and shit like the semi-eponymous William Wallace is not going to attract the ladies. I tried growing it out over lockdown but that can never be repeated, I am not an 80s teenage heartthrob, long hair just doesn’t suit me any more than becoming a heroin addict does, both are best left to the stars of The Breakfast Club (presumably). No, what I need is a proper professional haircut, military grade, I know my place. Some time ago I moved to London, oft described as the haircut capital of the world, or the UK at least. This is a city where someone like me has a bevy of suitable choices for a gentleman’s trim. As a provincial, middle-class man, I have previously only been exposed to one culture and thus only two genres of haircut, old white man with a smock and my mum’s hairdresser friend who did it for free. Now coming to London, I can truly experience the fabled community institutions that these different barbers of different cultures foster. There is something mythical, even magical, about these places and their atmosphere, it has to be seen to be believed, even a PR group as professional as Elizabeth Warren’s campaign team couldn’t replicate it perfectly (though they got damn close). Anyone can dream of being ushered, like a king, into the tight-knit community of these trim shops but is this transcendent barbershop experience possible or will cruel reality rear its ugly head again?

. . .

I walk in from the biting frost, the gentle ding-dong of the bell above the door tells the proprietors and patrons of Hamza’s Haircuts that a new member of the family has walked in, not quite a brother, but like a nephew that you haven’t seen since he was very young.

“Cal!” the locals echo, a la Norm from Cheers.

“Wagwan my guys, chilly one today innit?” I respond as I begin to take off my designer jacket and scarf, hanging them up by the empty waiting bench. I make my way over to my soon-to-be favourite chair, right by the window to watch the world going by, the Turkish barber turns his attention from the Beşiktaş match and ambles over. Here we go.

With heady dreams running through my head, I stride up to the door of ‘CHOP’ and grasp the handle. It’s not opening. Not to worry, just gotta give the stiff handle a bit more muscle.

“Aha!” I exclaim as I get it open, I push the door open and clatter into the modern barbershop with undue strength. My awkward entrance has drawn the eyes of both barbers and a few of the customers waiting.

“You want a haircut?” the closest barber says in a distinctly not-Turkish accent, Italian maybe?

“Ooh sorry, do I need an appointment or can I walk-in or…” I trail off.

“No no, sit.” He gestures pointedly towards one of the remaining spaces on the bench. I walk through the door and to my surprise it doesn’t swing shut behind me. I casually push it closed but the wind outside is creating some kind of vacuum that makes it difficult, I settle for getting it half-closed and go to sit down. Once seated I immediately notice the sign on the door “Please close”. I raise myself off the bench to rectify the situation but think better of it and sit back down. Feel bad about inviting the cold in but no one has said anything and the moment has gone now, it’s too late.

Any resemblance to real barbers is purely coincidental

Sitting in my favourite chair, the barber flashes me a smile in the mirror.

“What’ll it be, handsome man?” Maybe a bit homoerotic for me, but this is just how they do things on the tether between Europe and Asia, and that’s my culture now too.

“2 on the back and sides please, beautiful.”

“No problem, friend, you want a drink?”

“Yeah, I’ll take a beer, why not? It’s 5 o’clock somewhere, right?”

“Aha yes! Right you are, my friend!” He chimes, popping the tops off of two exotic Turkish beer bottles (probably not available in the UK), we clink our beverages together and move forward into a delightful haircut, dancing with my bottle in an attempt to sip, seem casual, and not get any hair in it. The experience seems to go on forever, we discuss all the finer things in life, beer leads to football, leads to hometowns, leads to work, leads to money, leads to, of course, women. With different regulars chipping in interesting insights and tall tales at regular intervals.

“Got any special ladies in London then, Cal?” Hamza queries.

“Unfortunately not, it’s tough out there, Hamza.”

“Ahh, not for a handsome guy like you, surely? Tell you what, after I finish my shift, me and you hit the bar, I will make sure I find you a woman who is worthy of you!” Normally I don’t relish going out with new people without my friends, but there’s something in his Turkish accent oozes a good time, besides Hamza is my friend now, him and his compatriots from the salon are all the friends I need.

“Alright then, you’re on.” I blush, not wanting to seem overly keen, but already looking forward to what promises to be a hell of a night.

“Ah, Spanish?” I say, pointing to the Spanish flag emblazoned with a football crest sitting in front of the mirror as I finally get to sit down after 15 minutes of waiting.

“They are: Real Madrid, do you know them?” as he walks over to close the door that has been letting the winter air in. This response slightly throws me, I was asking if he was Spanish not the club, I have obviously heard of Real Madrid. I plough on regardless, now forced to pay the character I have fallen into of someone that has just a passing knowledge of football and apparently tries to impress barbers my identifying which football clubs are Spanish.

“Ah yeah, aha Ronaldo!” I say as I know he played for Madrid but left a while ago, don’t want to ruin my reputation and seem too knowledgeable now. No, I am the guy that doesn’t know football at this place forever now, a small price to pay to fit in. But he seems to be buying it and I, gaining confidence from striking up this bizarre chat, launch my first attempt at assimilation. “The usual please”. The look on my barber’s face tells me that this was far too brash.

“What do you mean? You’ve never been here before, have you?” He responds. I begin to stammer an explanation but- “Ah, were you in last week? You asked me about what you should do on holiday in Iran?”

“No, no that wasn’t me, sorry. I haven’t been here before, I meant my usual, which is just… normal.” It’s fair enough, I reason, I must just have a fairly generic face, easy to get confused. I’ve now also missed my opportunity to tell him what kind of haircut I would actually like. I pass the rest of the trim in silence, wondering, waiting, to see what kind of style will emerge as what this Albanian thinks is the most ‘normal’ white man haircut.

The rest of the night passes in a blur, Hamza declines any payment for my hair, (“As long as you promise to come back again, my friend”) and the afternoon and early evening flies by as I sink complimentary continental lagers while shooting the shit with neighbours that come in and out. Hamza’s Haircuts begins to feel like a second home for me, a spell that I am wrapped under, only punctuauted by ocassionally going outside with Hamza and another patron to share a long cigarette break. As we stand outside smoking I remark “Nice trim, geezer” and “Looking fresh my guy” to every customer who walks out, hoping that this nice response to their haircut will trigger positive reinforcement and prompt them to return to the bustling community hub that my local barbershop has become. Once night comes, Hamza has finished his shift. We hit a string of pubs, bars and clubs, having the time of our lives, sinking shots and dancing till we drop. Finally, at the end of the night, we emerge from Inferno’s back onto the street with two beautiful ladies in each of our arms.

“See you next time you need a haircut, my man.”

“Absolutely, bossman.” I shoot back as I’m already walking home with the women in tow. If one haircut can do this much to my confidence and give me this good a time, I can’t wait to go back there every fortnight, for the rest of my life.

“Thanks man, how much do I owe you?” I say as I pull my card out.

“Fourteen pounds. Ah, cash only, apologies.”

“Oh” I say, clearly taken aback. Of course, barbershops, the last relic of the cash-based economy, I might as well be in Skyrim sabotaging his rival hairdresser next door for a free trim, at least that would give me a questline to try and join his guild, but no, I’ll pay with my gold coins instead, simpler. “Where’s the closest cash machine?”

“Just around the corner, on the right, past the Sainsbury’s.”

“Ok, back in a jiffy.” I’ve given up all pretence of trying to fit in now and have defaulted back to my south western accent and lexicon. I return, far too many minutes later, having visibly struggled to find it and stood still outside the glass door for 5 minutes looking around. “There you go mate, cheers.” I hand him a £20 note. I take my change and fumble it into my wallet before swiftly charging over to the door to put an end to this whole ordeal. Once again I struggle with the handle and just as panic starts to set in, my barber saunters over and opens it with ease for me, just as happy to be rid of me. “Sorry mate, aha, tricky door.” I mumble and rush out, tripping on the step in my haste. Another barbershop crossed off the list, never to go back, that makes seven. Maybe next time.
['Callum Gordon']
['Hair', 'Style', 'Hair Salon', 'London', 'Barbers']