Viva Lewes Issue #135 December 2017

COLUMN
Colin Chapman
Confessions from the cutting room floor
I’ve been unfaithful. I need
to confess. My wife will
understand. I’m seeing a
new woman. In short, I’ve
changed my hairdresser.
I’ve been to the same one in
Lewes for 12 years and on
a whim I went to another
today. Betrayal.
When I was a small boy
I sat on a hard plank that
stretched across the arms
of the large padded barber’s
shop chair. The one that
elevates with a foot pedal
and a thousand-pound
pressure from the strength
of the barber’s leg. One
leg being far stronger and
meatier than the other,
I guessed. Perhaps there
were special barbers' races where they leaned
into the track as if it were cambered but it wasn’t.
And the pole outside. A spiral, never ending and
hypnotic, calling you in. It revolved but not in
the wind. On low level electricity perhaps, or
was it connected to the chair so that as I was
elevated the spare effort pumped the pole? A
symbol of the bloodletting they used to do as a
sideline. “Short back and insides, sir?” The cut
throat razor, horror of horrors. One slip, no ear.
And at that time the suing culture was a distant
and ridiculous hypothesis. “What’s wrong with
your ear?” someone might say in later life. “Oh,
it’s an old knife injury, but I don’t like to talk
about it”. At that time, the Teddy boys carried
razors. Let them think you were braver than you
were. Oh yes, but it did take me courage to go to
the barber alone as a small boy, taking time out
from roaming free in the less-traffic streets on
skates that had leather
bindings and metal
wheels. Heady days.
Now it’s changed. I can
get the senior citizen’s
discount and no-one
would ever dream,
let alone suggest,
that I needed a little
something for the
weekend. My barber
today, my new barber
(not a hairdresser you’ll
note) is a delightful
young lady with blue
hair and piercings. Her
colours and metalwork
could frighten a lesser
soul but she’s friendly
and professional. She
diplomatically snips my
thinning hair, estimating how much to take off
so I don’t look bald but still, before I can object,
she whips out that rear view mirror to show
me the back of my head! I’m sure she’s done a
good job but I really don’t need reminding that
my boyish locks no longer grow there. Yet, I
am pleased. I’ll return. I ponder. A lifetime of
haircuts, a lifetime in the chair. One every five
to six weeks, on average? Add that up and it
starts to get scary. If I’d devoted that time to
Proust I could have learned French and read all
seven volumes. Still, it’s very pleasant to relax,
to gossip, to share a moment. A confessional
almost. I come out feeling lighter in body
and soul. Until I remember what I’ve done,
that nagging feeling of being unfaithful, of
betrayal…
Chloë King has had a healthy baby girl; she’ll be
back in the new year
Photo by Colin Chapman
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