Hey, you want to meet the hairdresser? Of COURSE you do.
The hairdressers is next door. I have risked life and limb taking a pic I think. It is Sunday, so he's shut, but what if someone tells him? It's that kind of area. And he's a little, erm, unstable. But it was so worth it. Ok, he's not really sepia toned, but he should be. What do you think? Better in colour?
The hairdresser does a monthly themed window. Sometimes more frequent, even. I will be recording them for you. I think this audacious number is probably intended to represent 'hairdressing through the ages'. Though actually I think he still uses all of these equipment displayed. None of us was terribly sure about the lemons, but I'm sure it's coherent in his grand decorative theme.
The hairdresser can only do one of two things - cut your hair savagely short, or not cut your hair. Binary hairdressing. And only if you have the requisite chromosomes. I was once in there when a woman tried to get a haircut. It was as if she had stripped naked and rubbed her crotch against his faux-leather chair. Stark horror. 'Mais non Madame, I do not have the .. equipment' .
Apparently, if you're a guy he's a fount of local gossip too, but all I ever get when accompanying the eurospawn is terse monosyllables. It's like being in the wrong sort of bar in Southern Europe, or going out on your own in the souk in Marrakech. You get the strongly conveyed non-verbal message that This Is Not Your Place.
The CFO has found out all sorts of dirt about the neighbours, apparently, but being the CFO has forgotten it all by the time he gets home. First he'll say 'How do I look?' and I will say 'Like you have allowed that frightening man next door near your head with a sharp instrument. Possibly while he was having some kind of seizure". Then he'll say tantalising things like 'he told me someone has gone bankrupt, and someone likes wearing women's clothes'.
'Who?!' I shriek. 'The judge? The desperate hausfrau? Damien from the shop?! Tell me tell me'. But he has already been distracted by the siren song of a tantalising spreadsheet and wanders away, brushing off clumps of hair and scalp.
I was astonished to see the price list implying he does more than one thing.
Completely untrue. The CFO, Fingers and Lashes all get the same treatment, as do all his other customers. The streets around here are full of slightly dazed Belgians all wearing the same assymetrical buzz cut. When Fingers was little, he was a mass of blond curls, in the manner of Fotherington Thomas. And often mistaken for a gurl. I tried to ask the hairdresser to spare the curls, but he gave a wordless grunt and powered up the razor. .. Thirty seconds in the white heat of creativity later Fingers was wearing the shell shocked expression and hairdo of a just sheared sheep that has fallen victim to a particularly hungover vacationing New Zealander.
Best not to mess with him in any event. He's so cross. I don't think I've ever heard him say anything except 'bouge pas!'. We don't dare go anywhere else, because I am sure he would find out and torch the house. It was even worse when he broke his leg and had to do the business with his leg in a bin bag, wheeling himself round with the aid of a borrowed zimmer frame, vibrating with barely supressed rage. I mean, it's hardly Nicky Clarke is it. I hardly ever go to the hairdresser, but when I do I want head massage, hot drinks, and high class gossip, preferably featuring people out of Heat magazine. Or at least vicarious enjoyment of torrid tales of hot sex, recreational drugs and lovelife angst. My London hairdresser 'did' Kylie for a while and I dined out on that for years. Though of course I would boastfully tell people that and then realise in the slightly too long gap before they replied, that they were thinking 'so why does your hair look so shite?'.
The 'tondeuse' sounds good though. Isn't that a lawnmower? I'd love to see him wielding that.
Oh, and the missing fifteen percent of my weekend? Laughing at the new tortoise getting stuck in a rubber boot. Ha!