This is a true story. Tenses may have been jumbled in an effort to maintain the corporeal sense of time which one feels when attending an appointment. Moreover, I’ve not got the energy to edit it too much at this stage.

 

The following takes place a quick walk from Baker Street, past the famous home of your Holme-boy, Sherlock, where you will find the salon of Mr Hummels. I know, you’re surprised to hear that it’s a salon he goes to rather than a barbers, but there are certain things which Mr Hummels will not compromise on and hair is one of them. Incidentally, after several hours touring the windows and websites of barbers and hairdressers this was found to be the cheapest option in a one mile radius. (It was located on a well known voucher site.) It will remain anonymous here so as not to give competitive advantage, other salons are available and recommended but for the purposes of our tale I will divulge the above. Let the story begin…

I entered the salon bang on three. My appointment was for three, I entered at three. Not early or late, on time. I have an inkling that this is frowned upon these days, perhaps it is something I have been discouraged from; my family is always punishingly early for events, my girlfriend and friends are always late. Being literally on-time makes you feel like a bit of cunt and in a city like London, it certainly seem rare. Anyway, as a student with little on my plate (and a slight cold, I should mention), I was able to be liberal with my time and plan my day around the awkward appointment time I’d chosen yesterday. Thus, I was on time.
The first complication came when I entered, the glass doors from the outside catching against the glass doors to the inside in a ridiculously small porch. As a large person, dressed in comfortable, warm clothing (I have a cold), I managed to manipulate the space poorly and entered the salon facing the door – in an effort to close it behind me.
This is all observed by the short, dark-haired girl with long snaking eyebrows who is sat behind the traditionally curved reception-desk-come-pulpit. I make my announcement.
“I have an appointment at 3.”
I eye over the desk at the appointment book, spread-eagled and stained. My misspelled and upside-down name stares back at me on the line for 3, it takes a minute for the receptionist to see it. She smiles up and says “Yes.”
“Yes?” I say.
“Yes.” She replies and smiles again. I loose myself momentarily in the bright lilac of her jumper until I notice it extend and her hand slowly starts to gesture to the man who has appeared at my shoulder.
His black shirt, black trousers and gelled back black hair put in mind a waiter rather than a hairdresser but I do as he says and walk with him into the expanse of the salon. Around me mirrors shine at odd angles, chairs sit in strange places and I get the distinct feeling I’ve entered a poorly kept lair of a Bond villain or a room stocked  with prop’s from Bruce Lee’s studio. I am taken to the nearest corner the room, opposite the reception platform and the receptionist who has now disappeared, the waiter leaves my side.
“Two minutes.” he says as he strides away.
I nod eagerly.
In the mirrors, I build upon my first impression with many more, mirrored impressions. Beside the curved reception desk, tucked out of site, two men sit. One is sat on a swivly hairdresser stool. He is short, bald and stocky. His face carries a pleasant bemusement which one would imagine comes from sitting inside a salon often. Beside him in a lower reception chair like the one I’m sat in, is a shorter man, who is stockier and has badly died hair. They exchange glances at me and with me and I feel uncomfortable and look elsewhere. The mirrors dotted around bring me to rest my gaze on them somehow and I do as any sane person might and reach for my phone – preparing the my pre-paid voucher for confirmation. ‘These two might mean business and I don’t want them to think I’m stealing my haircut.’ I glance up occasionally at the two men, they are in earnest, low-voiced conversation about something and I feel as though I may have been rumbled. Each man looks as though he hails from the panoply of Mediterranean countries though it is impossible and politically incorrect to speculate which.
I glance again at the walls of the room which are littered with the tools of trade I haven’t mastered. ‘Why is Barbicide so brightly coloured? Surely it’s stained for decorative purposes rather than…’
“Hello” my hairdresser approaches, she of medium height and her hair is better than respectable, the first thing one looks for in a hairdressers.
“Hi, there.” I reply.
The rest of the conversation is predictable. I use my adequate powers of description to give a fairly inadequate description of what I’d like. Eventually we agree, an inch of haircutting all round!
“Before we get started, did you get this on the site or call direct?”
“On the vouchersite?” I answer haphazardly, the million dollar question(!). ‘Perhaps I’ve got a senior stylist’ I wonder to myself, ‘maybe the waiter cuts the voucher hair and this lady cuts the real stuff.’ I start to panic but she seems satisfied with my answer and darts off. ‘She’s going to radio the heavies… I should get up…’ She returns carrying a phone and the sweat trickles down my back.
“Can I just scan your voucher first, before we start, just in case I forget?” She asks in a soft Indian accent. Her skin is loose across her face and its safe to say she looks tired.
“Sure. ” I reply.  I’m prepared for this, I take the phone out of my pocket again and find the voucher and start to read off a number.
“Can I just scan the code please?” She asks and I look blankly at her.
She snatches my phone from me and pulls at its old screen with no reply. My phone leaps into several actions at once and she hands it back to me.
“Can you get the code?”
“It should be on the voucher?”
I re-open the email and close the compromising tab she’s unwittingly opened.
“The voucher….” I say aloud and proceed to open and close things and not log into other things for a few minutes.
Eventually, I find the code and she snatches my phone back off me and scans it.
“Ok….” she says calmingly and I sink into the chair. She scowls at the price displayed on either handset ‘£14 – Gentleman’. I bristle, expecting an argument about the length of my hair. That is the reason why I had to come to this place, the last barber I visited had advertised ‘£14 – Gentleman’ and yet at the end of my hair cut had demanded £18 as mine is a longer, more rugged style. I did try and point out that his pricing was by perceived gender and not by length, but it didn’t go anywhere and I had to fork out an extra £4. (The length pricing argument would have been shaky had I got there, surely a ‘removed length’ is the way to go for hairdressers, or ‘removed hair – by weight.’ Better to pay the £4.)
“Can I just take a before and after shot then? Saying as it’s cheap?”
“Eh… yes, I don’t see why not.”
“Don’t worry, not your face though.” I hear a camera tone from behind me and stare at myself in the chair as hands with a camera phone float over my head like a strange set of antlers.
“This way please…” She says and she trots off behind an angled mirror, pocketing the phone. I leap up and struggle to stay behind her, dodging moving chairs and objects hidden by reflections. We stop by a sink-and-chair combination, the name of which has long since vanished.
‘The voucher had stated that it was a ‘Wash and Cut’ but I hadn’t figured they’d go through with it.’ I think to myself. As the cheapest available hairdresser in a one mile radius I’d figured it would have been quick and to the point. Cut and dry. But this was to be wash, and cut, and dry. At this point, standing over the chair-and-seat combination I realise that I’d never had my hair washed by another person as an adult. I do have experience of sitting in one a sink-and-chair as a small child but though I’m no longer a small child, the principle is still the same, if slightly more ungainly. The same can’t be said for hair washing, this is uncharted water. I sat gingerly down and placed my neck in the groove as I’d done many years ago, I felt the sink rise up as she pumped her foot on a mechanism, more inglorious than a dentists chair but just as effective, like an adjustable glory-hole.
At this moment I realise I’m trapped. In front of me is a gigantic mirror, I eye it craning my neck uncomfortably, trying to work out what is happening behind me. My head is pushed forward and a towel embraces my neck. Above me a cheap unfinished light scaffold dazzles and glares. At the dentist, they have a map.
Catching site of my reflection again, I notice my gut unflatteringly stretched out, my hands awkwardly by my sides.
Suddenly, an intense flapping sound resonates around the sink bowl into my ears. I feel panic rise up in me and I try to catch sight in the mirror. There is a slapping sound and the flapping once more. I catch sight of the first hand returning from the sink and see it is now gloved. This is growing into a sordid Debbie and Paul outtake. I calm myself with the reasonable explanation that she was putting her gloves on in the sink and it made a very disconcerting sound. ‘This is to be a pleasant experience.’ I tell myself.
I hear a shhhing from behind me and start to feel the ends of my hair swish side to side.
“Just a quick shampoo and conditioner.” a pleasant and known indian voice comes from behind me.
“Yes. Sure.” I don’t really know what to say.
I glance back at the mirror and try to remain calm but a wave of lukewarm fluid reaches my scalp and gives me the sudden impulse to vomit. It runs across my ears and onto my forehead in a demeaning way, something I’d never do myself and probably never agree to do again. Her hands scrunch at my hair as the shampoo foams violently, the water temperature begins to restore a sense of pleasure and I can start to relax. ‘God, this is strange, though. People actually enjoy this?’ I ask myself.
Suddenly large amounts of foams enter my ear, a gloved rubber hand tries to massage the foam out. I shudder noticeably. She works at the ear like a professional until it becomes clear again, my eyes are shut as this degrading practice continues. I glance back at the mirror in horror, aware of how uncomfortable I am, I become acutely aware of more horrifying situations in the same vein. The bright lights and mirrors, the rubber-clad expert behind me. My body un-flatteringly staring back at me. I feel a suppressed nervous smile. The alienness of the situation is almost too much for me.
She comes back in and starts to scrunch in conditioner. Behind me I here a strange high pitched, almost squeaking breathing sound which I put down to the gloves and the sink. She quickly rinses me again then twists my hair and asks me to get up. As I rise the towel around my neck is replaced as if by magic. She comes round to my side and gestures for me to follow her back to where we started. I stand from the sink-chair and feel suddenly massive, my long hair dangles and my strides feel huge. I keep by her back foot this time and tower a few feet over her, like a sheepgiraffe.
She gestures at the cracked faux-leather chair I sat in before and throws a gown around me.
“Would you like a drink; tea, coffee, a glass of water?”
“No, thanks.” I answer to each option.
“So just an inch off…” She says and starts to comb back my hair and clip it with previously unseen clips. Our eyes catch briefly and I look away, straight into the path of the two seated men, one of whom nods at me as he talks to his accomplice. I glance away again and notice a couple of people disappear down some stairs. Using the other angle, I glance down the row of other customers, spaced out randomly. There is a woman which was here when I entered and I’d barely paid any attention to, reading her book. She is wearing an elaborate foil hat and I speculate whether she is indeed mental. I glance at the book and make out the title, ‘Eager for Love’. I eye her suspiciously.
Two more women enter the room only to disappear down the stairs.
Beside the woman in the foil hat the waiter shows a woman to her haircutting throne-seat. I over hear her say to him “I’ll show you what I mean.” He stands by her as she tells him the particulars and I wish I’d done the same. Over her shoulder the waiter picks up a lock of hair and holds it aloft to stretch it out, she doesn’t see this and he glances at the two seated men with the hair in his hand, the man with the dyed hair nods and the waiter nods back, all unbeknownst to the owner of the hair. The waiter drops the hair and disappears down stairs. ‘That wouldn’t fly on public transport.’ I think to myself. I get the impression from the nod that these men, specifically the one with the dyed hair, are involved with the operating of this reputable establishment. Behind me, the breathing squeak sound has returned. I glance at my reflected stylist and realise that she is laughing audibly, no, forcibly, to herself. I hurriedly look away worried I may have rumbled her laughing at me behind my back. The laughter is soon replaced by animated facial expressions. I watch her unguarded now, wondering if this is really happening. Her face slowly drops to resting and I watch the mirror as two women enter the room and disappear downstairs. My face moves inquisitively and as it returns to normal I see the two men staring at me. I fix my gaze on the ground again.
My hairdresser moves from side to side behind me. ‘If I count each move then I’ll know it’s even.’ I think to myself but before I am able to work through the logic of this thought, scissors clatter to the floor with a muted, “sshit…” in an Indian voice. She bend quickly to pick up her implements, sucking at her finger on the way up. I half turn, then fully turn, scared she may stab her own eye while she sucks on her cut finger.
“Eh, have you cut yourself?”
“No, no. Don’t worry, happens all the time.”
“Occupational hazard?” I say. The force of the statement lost as I turn to face myself in the mirror again and she returns to the familiar swaying of scything through long grass. Except, the rhythmic motion she had taken up before is now disrupted by an occasional glance at her finger or a suck of the falling blood. Eventually she reaches for a hidden roll of multi purpose blue paper, the naturally occurring blue paper in the service habitat. Untidily wrapping and rolling this round her finger, things begin to go on as normal.
Down the aisle, the waiter has disappeared and has been replaced by a man with long grey hair, stained yellow at the edges from nicotine. He had been outside smoking when I entered at three, I feel a sense of glee when I realise that I dodged a nicotine fingering. The lady whose hair was measured by the waiter is the unlucky recipient. The woman who is ‘Eager for Love’, looks up as a pair of legs beneath a mirror manifest into a fully grown elderly male. Not very old, just past middle age, with a grey mustache. He caresses her shoulder briefly and begins to examine her foil hat.
My hairdresser stops again to assess the damage on her finger as I become aware of what feels like a drip on my neck. Her fingers flick my hair again and seem stickier than before. The fashioned blue bandage comes unfastened and waves in the mirror like a stick man at a car sale. She storms off and I watch her across the floor, the seated men are oblivious as she rumbles behind the alter of reservations. She plants a first aid kit on top and digs around. I look at my feet and the fallen soldiers are spattered with significant blood loss, I’m glad I didn’t come for body hair. Several minutes pass and I’m starting to wonder if I should have offered to help, my eyes flick over the hair on the floor and examine the blood for a missed finger.
“Did you find a plaster?” I ask as she returns.
Her face is pained.
“No, but, it’s ok.” I want to tell her that sometimes its best to leave cuts, let them air out, it always worked for me as a child, but this is the city and you have to watch what you say. She re-addresses my hair. Figuring out where she left off, content with re-wrapped blue roll.
As another woman disappears downstairs into the labrynth, I become aware of a faint, intermittent, banging. I zone out and watch more once-illustrious locks fall to the ground. Like a newly born griffin or a determined casualty of war, it will return, for the next few years anyway after which my male-pattern-baldness will save me £14 x ∞. The banging fixes my attention again and I look over to the two Mediterranean gentleman who look back. The foil hatted lady and the woman whose hair now smells freshly of cigarette smoke start to notice the banging too, all of us eye the direction of the two men, who this time pay no notice. All of a sudden, the short girl with the long eye brows springs up from behind the reception desk like a lilac jack in the first aid box and the banging stops. She moves across the salon floor, correcting some combs and mirrors and the disappears downstairs.
My hairdresser has finished each side now and has began laughing again, intermittently grimacing as the blue roll moistens through. In an instant the girl from reception darts over, a plaster aloft. She wordlessly hands over the micro-baton and I see a look of relief in the eyes peering from behind me. The plaster is applied quickly and I also breathe a sigh of relief, this feels like the home straight.
Resuming work, she pulls at the hair on the front of my head, pulls it straight down, over my eyebrows. I resemble the martial artist from Kill Bill briefly and cannot suppress the laughter. I giggle and the hairdresser frowns, not at me at the length of these strands she is measuring. All is forgotten now, her tired face is serene, calm, professional. Her demeanor is that of Tiger Woods as a young man on a golf course, or of Tiger Woods as an older man, surrounded by drugs. She comes round and starts to make the final adjustments, laughing now as she does so.
“You know you look like a hollywood star?” she asks me now, with a chuckle.
I laugh uncomfortably, staring at myself while receiving the endearing and seemingly genuine compliment.
She goes on.
“Yes, the long hair, the blue eyes.”
Uncomfortably, “haha… no. I’m not so sure.”
“Yes, hollywood.”
” Well, I don’t have their money anyway…” I attempt to bat back a joke.
“Pirates of the Caribbean or something. Brad Pitt.”
“I’ve certainly not got their weather either…” my dry throat croaks at this shit joke.
“What’s that?” she asks.
“I’ve not got their money or their weather.” I start to sweat, aware that she still hasn’t heard me. I change gear.
“Do you flatter all your customers?”
“No, only the good looking ones, the ones who I like.” There is something withering in this and in me.
“Oh well, thanks. haha.” I say nervously.
She doesn’t acknowledge this.
“If you need money, you could do it, there are agencies I’m sure you could get work. You look like them, not exactly… Though I don’t really watch much television.”
I don’t know how to take this, her self-doubt signals her lack of interest.
As the finishing touches are applied and I’m air dried and waxed, she gestures for me to stand. She positions me in front of a blank space of wall and I stare at it un-movingly as she starts to take pictures of the back of my head, the after-shots. She goes from side to side getting the right pictures, I feel as though I can cope with this, the blank, calm wall.
Behind me a sniggering, laughing sound escapes, this time from the two men at the other end of the room.
“My first modelling job.” I say to the wall. When I turn she barely smiles but at least got the joke.  She starts to thank me, walking me to the two doors. I try to glance downstairs as we pass, curious as to where all these women have gone. We go to retrieve the clothes I’d given over to the receptionist or waiter when I’d come in, she looks me firmly in the eye and thanks me again.
“Next time, you can call the store, here is my name. ” She says as she hands me a card with here name on the back.
“It is better for us if you call the store, thank you, Mr. Hummels.” She says with a slight pause, looking at the book when she says my name. I stumble through each door out into the fresh spring day, releasing hair like pollen.  I check the time, it’s half 4. My new hair catches a gust and I see myself staring back in a car window.
“Hollywood.” I say aloud. “Hollywood.”

—————————————————————————————————————————————–
Mr Hummels never went to Hollywood, Mr Hummels never had a Hollywood and Mr Hummels refuses to be drawn on speculation about Bollywood.

If any of the issues or situations alluded to in extended metaphors or shorter metaphors, or even similes, have offended or affected you, please be aware they were only included for artistic clarity and were not written with the intention to upset, undermine or poke fun at anyone. Seriously, Mr Hummels would like to make the world a better place, please get in touch with your general practitioner, do not subject me to the cyber gauntlet run.