The Joy of Small Things: a trip to the barbers
By Paul Richards
It is well-observed that when Tony Stark escapes from imprisonment by the Ten Rings terror organisation in Afghanistan, having invented a prototype Iron Man suit and wiped out his captors, on return to the US he demands, not sexual gratification as Pepper Potts suspects, but a cheeseburger.
More often than not it is the small, seemingly inconsequential things that the incarcerated miss most: a plate of shepherds’ pie, a football match, a pint of beer. Loss of freedom is a theoretical construct; the loss of the small things that pepper our lives with moments of satisfaction and joy is what adds up to real punishment when removed. Freedom, it turns out, comprises small acts of choice and will.
We are all being punished for something we didn’t do. Our collective house arrest may be ameliorated by trips out to the supermarket, or walks around the park, eyeing warily the masked others, who were once our neighbours. But after a month, we miss the little things that we are denied under social distancing. Sure, we may pine for functioning parliamentary democracy or meaningful work, but these are the big things. The little things are what aggregate to a life well led.
Take going to the barbers.
I am a bald man, and my trips to the barbers involve little more than the choice of a number — four if I’m feeling conservative, or one if I’m feeling radical. Once the barber has set the clippers, the ‘haircut’ may last under ten minutes — hardly time to invent a holiday destination or skillfully dribble the conversation away from football.
But a trip to the barbers is so much more than the buzzing of clippers, a slightly balder head than the one I entered with, and a charge of a tenner, including the tip. It amounts to more than a transaction; it is more than functional. It’s not like, say, a trip to the dentist or to fill the car up.
A trip to the barbers is imbued with cultural meaning. It’s one of the last redoubts of acceptable non-toxic masculinity. In the 1970s, high street barbers were as men-only as a Pall Mall club. The barbers wore aprons like butchers, wielded cut-throat razors, and offered you ‘something for the weekend’ at the end. At the upmarket end, places like Trumpers on Curzon Street or Jermyn Street never changed. To step into Trumpers is to step into the world of the fin de siècle gentleman, like everything from Sgt Pepper to Margaret Thatcher never happened. You can imagine being in the wood-panelled cubicle next to Arthur Conan Doyle or the Marquis of Salisbury.
In the 1980s, men started attending unisex ‘salons’. Here you would find women not only getting their hair done, but actually cutting the hair. Just imagine. Haircuts involved a wash and blow-dry followed by ‘product’: wax, gel, spray or worst of all mousse. I blame the New Romantics for this. Men would emerge looking like Nick Rhodes, and smelling like hair conditioner. The counter-culture demanded that these places should be avoided, and a million Dr Martens stomped into traditional barbers for a ‘flat-top’ or a full Morrissey.
Then came the hipsters. The arrival of a beard on every man’s face in Shoreditch and beyond gave rise to a new generation of men’s barbers. Some, like Murdock, grew into multi-million pound business. The first Murdock launched in 2006 on Redchurch Street off Shoreditch High Street (it’s still there), and they consciously echoed the traditional barbers (a glass of whisky as you get your beard trimmed) with a hipster twist (face scrub, lip balm, scented candles).
Others, like the local Kurdish or Turkish barbers offering hot towels, ear-hair singed with a naked flame, and vigorous head massages, remained stars of the local high street. These are the ones to seek out. There are still leather strops and a dollop of bay rum, astringent Eau de Portugal or Eau de Quinine. There are fewer porn mags and cabinets containing Durex (that’s the something for the weekend, if you didn’t know). But the experience remains a treat. One of my favourites, Life Barbers on Drury Lane (established in 1920) gives you a can of San Pellegrino and a Quality Street chocolate.
Everything, from the too-tight cape around your neck, to the locks falling like leaves onto the floor, to the ritual of the mirror held to the back of the head, adds up a cultural experience worthy of the V&A. And if you’ve been cutting your own hair, or that of your loved ones, you will appreciate the skill involved.
Barbers are usually small businesses, and they are suffering under the current crisis. When we are released, finally, from the torment of lock-down, don’t get a cheeseburger, get a haircut. I will be just ahead of you in the queue, internally debating a ‘one’ or a ‘four’, looking forward to a dash of bay rum, and appreciating the joy of small things.
NEXT TIME: The Joy of Small Things: bacon and eggs at a traditional cafe.
Paul Richards is a writer-for-hire, and could do with a trim.
