George

I never understood people who enjoyed getting their hair cut.  What’s to like about it?  Sitting in a chair with someone you don’t know chopping off bits of you, being forced to evaluate your worst points in the mirror whilst listening to terrible Madonna remixes is not my idea of a good time.  Chuck in the rigmarole of the head massage and the fact that as a man in a salon (paying the cheapest price available) you without fail will get stuck with the stubby-fingered, freshly out-of-the-closet  trainee with a hairdo that Pete Burns would consider a ‘bit much’, and you’d be hard pushed to find someone less inclined to get their barnet chopped than I.

George changed all this.

After moving to East London from Clapham, I went through the normal trying-to-find-the-right-hairdresser shit.  It seemed initially you were either paying 40 quid to have your precious hair cut by a bloke that looks like a cross between John Cleese and him from Foals, or you had to brave it at one of the many Turkish barbers that lined the Kingsland Road.  Now, there’s nothing wrong with Turkish barbers per se, but, well, you know….

Out of the mist shone John’s Hairdressing Salon.  Grey and grubby outside Old Street tube, it didn’t look much.  A 50’s style set-up that had gone to seed, though the red leather chairs- three of which sit permanently vacant- looked comfy.  So in I step. A balding, moustached man in his 50’s looks up from his Nintendo DS, smiles warmly, and apologises in a Mediterranean accent;

‘Sorry, I was quite engrossed.  It helps pass the time when we’re not busy.’

The haircut takes 15 minutes, tops.  There is no faffing- George seems to know instinctively what I’m after.  We start to rhapsodise about the haircuts at expensive salons, and how the haircut you get is often different to what you want.  He is passionate about this, and tells me how he’s been cutting hair in this same chair for 40 years and that he knows how to give a good haircut for a reasonable price (£9.50- beat that). With an endearing level of sheepishness, he also says that he considers himself an ‘artist’ and hairdressing his art.  Sensing my lips curl at this comment, he says ‘I know it sounds silly, but…’ before trailing off.

It transpires that the salon was actually owned by his (now deceased) grandfather and father before him, and that he is the last in the line as his son lives in Vancouver.  He delivers this fact without a trace of brinkmanship or, indeed, sadness.  He’s proud of the way he’s spent his life and when I tell him it will be sad to leave he simply says ‘yes, but then I will get on with the next stage of my life.’

The hair isn’t cut quite short enough.  Normally if this is the case, you just nod, pay some obsequious comment to the smarming cunt behind you and accept you’ll be back there in a week.  But I tell George- he nods, says ‘maybe.  Well I can make it shorter. If you don’t mind waiting a bit, as I will have to go round and re-do it all.  Is that okay?’

I tell him it is and, happy with the ensuing result I leave.

Couple of months later I go back. I’m a bit shaggy. He is cutting someone else’s hair, engrossed in conversation and doesn’t notice me so I sit down, thinking he won’t remember me anyway (though really hoping he will).  Man leaves, I sit down.

‘Hmmm,what’s happened? You’ve let it grow a bit long this time yes?’
I reply in the affirmative.  He asks me if I want it the same as last time. I reply that I do and he makes it so.

We chat at length again; about the weather, about how the council aren’t gritting the roads properly near his house in Muswell Hill, about how he has just been over to his mums memorial service in Cyprus (where he is from).  If this sounds like he has a bit of Londoncabbieitis and only likes the sound of his own voice, that is doing him a disservice as he asks plenty of questions and listens like a genuinely interested teacher when I spout the normal shit that comes out of my mouth.

I’ve now been back to John’s 10, 11 times.  I know a lot about George, I know a lot about his family, and he knows a fair amount about me. I’ve only ever spent a total of 2 hours in his company, yet I have no doubt if I was ever wondering through Muswell Hill and he saw me, he’d invite me in for dinner.  He’s that type of bloke and, though I’m glad I’ve met someone that gives great, cheap haircuts, I’m more glad I’ve met him.

Now, can I have it a little shorter this time please?