I had a mophead, now I have lopped said mop. Or at least, had said mop lopped by a mop-lopping professional. I no longer opt for the mop lop to be carried out outside of a barber shop, in case the quality drop of the mop I’m left with makes me have a strop. You dig?
Strangely though, I have never enjoyed having to go for a haircut until very recently. As in, I haven’t liked doing it – and have actually been reasonably fearful of it – until the time before today, when I first went to the place on Wimborne Road of which I’ve forgotten the name. This is a man that understands when I say “short back and sides” he will just ask what grade I want, then ask “and shorter on top?” to which I will respond “yes”. It will then take 7-10 minutes – or less – to finish cutting my hair, I will pay my £8 and that will be it. That will be it.
My experience of haircuts goes like so: as a child we went to the barber my Dad took us to – Graham’s in Mexborough – and we would get ‘short back and sides’ as my dad instructed. This would be carried out the same every time. Then it got to the point where I had to take myself for haircuts, which I could never be bothered doing, so my hair got quite long – but when I did go, I’d go to Graham’s and he’d know what to do with it. Simple. I then started opting for friends cutting my hair, which lead to some hilarity and some times where Mike’s Dad thought we were gay because he was cutting my hair. Obviously only the gays cut hair.
Then came the dark times at uni, when I had no access to hair clippers and was lured in by £5 haircuts at a local trendy barbers (they showed The Simpsons all the time). I would ask for short back and sides, or I would show a picture of myself on my student ID where I looked half decent and would say “like that”. Every time I ended up looking like Lloyd Christmas. Every time.
Anyway, this is going on too long so I’ll cut it short now (HAHAHAHA): continued having my hair cut by friends/shaving it all off. Manchester had hairdressmen who got angry with me – actually angry – when I just said “short back and sides”. Bournemouth initially spooked me as barbers bring out cut-throat razors for the back of your head. I thought the Turkish barber wanted me dead, as I may have mentioned before. Now I am comfortable with the fat old man. Cutting my hair, that is.
All in all though, I’m glad I now don’t mind having to drop into the chop shop to have the top of my mop lopped. It means I look less like a mushroom head. I still don’t like hair though.