Shouts From Down Under

From hair on in...

Do you become nervous at the thought of a haircut?

I do.



There is no particular reason I can put my shaking finger on, and no reliable way to "cut" these thoughts out of my brain.
I've tried taking a pair of curly handled scissors to this negative motivation, but find that it's a case of keeping my hair on, and facing up to getting my locks cut off; after all, it's as simple as sitting in a chair - a large chair with a step-up to it, and facing my fears - in a mirror.

The barber has been helping people to face their fears for 58 years this year.
Since I was a boy. Since well before I was a boy.
He specialises in men's haircuts, and I'm here to tell you, he's good at his job. He wouldn't have lasted 58 years if he messed things up.

His name is John, but his nickname is Chimp.

"How did that come about?"

I asked him...carefully. You don't give cheek to veteran geezers with snapping scissors, and cut-throat razors sitting conveniently at hand.

"Back in 5th class, while I was playing football, another kid said I looked like a Chimp when I ran up the field, and the name stuck. I wouldn't turn my head if someone asked my real name."

Another patron, waiting in the traditional queueing system of chairs - along the back wall, then spoke up.

"Except for the Doctor."

"Yeah, The Doctor calls me John."

"And The Debt Collector" said the voice behind us.

"Yeah and that. That's all I seem to get is bills." Chimp observed, his scissors clacking near my ear lobes. He always asks you what style you'd prefer.

He speaks again. Says it's OK to take some photos, and gives ready permission for me to use him and his micro business for a blog subject.

"Yes, you can take any picture you want to, that's quite all right."

"Thanks. Is that...were you really on 60 minutes, like it says on your door sign?"

"Yeah, it wasn't a documentary on 60 minutes, it was pictures; another feller like you came in here, took some professional photos and he got up into the top finalists."

More snapping scissor noise.

"He didn't win but he got right up there, up in the top few."

He moved on to hair clippers now, loosening all the stuff around my neck and lowering the protective gown. He is a thorough barber, trimming everywhere, not just a basic cheap job. This man knows, every day, that his best advertising opportunity is sitting right in this seat, right now.

The one in the mirror takes a quick selfie, another, attempting to fit his own scalp, and the flitting, blurry barber into the picture.

"Yeah, where you living now?" he asks. Then we talk about my family. This is a small town barber. But city barbers are the same. They chat about the community. After all, they've fiddled with every head in it just about.
There are the modern hairstylists that have mod cons, slick advertising, the latest hair products, hair dryers, stylish premises and trendy cutting edge skills.

Not this establishment. This one has a single comfortable barber's chair, a blaring TV plonked on another, and walls covered in cuttings, family pictures and most importantly - football photos.

I won't go into what team here. We don't want this to be a violent blog.

So he finally finishes, and I grab my bottle of water, sunglasses and wallet from off the worn bench, glancing at the hand basin, the faded sign reading "Yes, I'm quite a bull***er myself so carry on!" , and hand him $10 for a cracking good hair cut.

Yes! Still only $10 after all these years. I can't believe it. I meant to ask him what he used to charge, all those years ago, when I was a boy; in the 70's & early 80's.

And I'm a relieved lad of 46 summers, probably 40 of them have passed since I can remember sitting in this very seat, in my school grey shorts, blue button up shirt, dirty socks, scuffed Bata Scout school shoes, and a nervous face.

Some things never change. My face still looks as if I was expecting my throat to be sliced open by this obviously hostile fellow.
My head is still mine own, my hair is now much more manageable (no combing in the morning!) and I walk out of there 10 feet tall, wondering why I was so nervous in the first place.

That, dear readers of WdC and whoever else stumbles across this unprofessional blogging effort, that is the whole message in a nutshell.

Why do we procrastinate about doing stuff? WHY????

Life is a whole lot better, if we just DO IT. Ok. That's all. And I'm totally saying this to myself in the mirror of the barber's shop, while Chimp wonders why I'm a bit quiet.

But, he knows his clients all have different needs, come from different walks of life, and as long as they don't bull***t too much, and pay up their cash afterwards, then he's happy.

He's been happy for 58 years. He's been featured (briefly) on 60 minutes.
And will now be featured on Sparky's blog for another 2 minutes.

Hey, that's much longer than 60 minutes gave him! A world record for sure.



Sparky