“So, mate, have you done this before?” he asks me in a broad Essex accent, tinged with a touch of the Mediterranean.
I settle into the black leather chair and allow my mind to fly back some fifty years to an identical black leather chair situated near the station in Brixton. The accent on this occasion was more Caribbean than Mediterranean and the atmosphere was more exotic than in sunny Southend in spite of the efforts of the vapes being enjoyed by one or two of the other clients.
Back then, my new Rasta friend, Leroy, looked searchingly at me.
“How old you, man?” he demanded.
I felt that if I gave the wrong answer I would be ejected from the chair and the premises and denied this moment of self indulgence that I had promised myself for some weeks.
I weighed up my response very carefully before admitting that I was only eighteen years old. In those days the voting age was twenty-one, remember.
“Then why you gotta grey patch in your hair, man?”
“Where, where!” I exclaimed leaning forward in a blind panic. He pointed to an area around my left temple and I stared into the enormous mirror that was in front of the chair, seeking out this stain on my crowning glory. Twisting and turning my head, I finally spotted the offending patch, reflecting the spotlights that were all around me in this Brixton emporium.
“Oh, that,” I said, dismissively, “I’ve had a hard life, man!”
My dark and leather-skinned Rasta-man searched my (near) flawless pale skin for signs of lining, or scars or even weathering but found none. With a dismissive shrug of his large shoulders he bent forward and picked up a blade, testing the sharpness menacingly on a piece of paper.
Blade poised he leant into my personal space (although back in the sixties I’m not entirely sure that we actually had ‘personal space’). I could smell the sweet aroma of ganga on his breath as Leroy asked me in his deep and strangely threatening voice,
“So, son, what’s it to be? A wet shave and a trim?”

Back in the present my Turkish barber is unlikely to comment on the greyness, as, by now, I am entirely grey. His challenge is more likely finding enough hair to warrant his charge.
“Yes,” I tell him, “I have had the works before but not for many years – in fact back to when I had hair!”
“So what we are going to do is cut the hair tighter, trim the goatee, give you a wet shave with the hot towels then tidy up your bits and pieces. OK?”
Sounds good to me although I’m not entirely sure what ‘bits and pieces’ I will be having tidied up. Maybe I shouldn’t have worn these particular shorts and T-shirt?
“So, what’s the occasion, mate, looking for a new wife?”
“Trying to keep the one I’ve got, more like!” I respond, “no, it’s more of a dry run for the daughter’s wedding in a couple of weeks.”
My Turkish friend assures me that the ladies would be delighted with the final effect and I settle down to let him do his stuff.
In a whirl of scissors and razors, this skilled technician sets to work to reduce my sparse head of hair to a neat nap across the areas of my head that still sports hairs. It is clearly a labour of love as my hairdresser appears to address each strand individually, making a last minute decision as to whether it will be the razor or the scissor for every follicle.
Let me be honest, I prefer to see a little more hair and a little less forehead but the criticism is pointless as, in the nature of these things, I will have my wish within a week – a close haircut is only a close haircut for seven days.
The barber is interested to know why the goatee goes so far down my neck and I explain that it is a failed attempt to camouflage my wobbly jowls. He has a better plan and sets to work with a look of deep concentration, shaping and trimming in precise strokes of his instruments.
I am very impressed with the final outcome but I am assured that it will look better after the shave. Ahead of this he is anxious to deal with my ‘bits and pieces’. I ask if I need to remove any clothing for this part and he laughs loudly and takes an implement to my nostrils and eyebrows. He then turns his attention to my ears, which are, and have been for some time, the most efficient producer of hair over any other part of my body. He snips and snaps away at the tree trunks that emerge from my ear canal.
I’m satisfied with the outcome but my friend is not. He searches around for what appears to be a giant cotton bud and dips it into a blue fluid. I’ve seen this liquid before but my brain will not register what it is until he puts a lighter to it. It’s paraffin – PARAFFIN for Gods Sake!
Now, me and fire have a healthy, even paranoid, respect for each other so I’m squirming away from this flaming torch. I think that my barber has noticed my discomfort as he starts to wave the lighted taper as if to put it out. In an instant he has run the flame around my ear and I can smell burning – the burning of the small hairs around my ears. For once I am speechless, giving my assailant time to attack the other ear before I can prevent it.
I sit rigidly in shock at having been turned into a human torch and before I can pass any comment he throws a boiling towel around my cheeks, wrapping it in a top-knot at the crown of my head. As I start to gyrate in a dance of panic my Turkish Delight spots the problem.
“Sorry, mate, I should leave you a gap for your nose so you can breathe!”
“And let this broiled scarf cool down before you start to blister the skin.”
I intone, but the towels act as a gag and my words are lost on my torturer.
After what feels like forty minutes, Gas Mark 4 in the centre of the oven, my face is released from its baster and my florid chops are lathered up – including the newly sculptured goatee. Discretion dictates that I do not mention the damage that he has already inflicted on my skin as he is now holding a cut-throat razor close to my neck. He had said that he had a plan for my wobbly jowls – maybe this is what he has in mind.
In a flurry of blade and lather, my face slowly re-emerges and, I must admit, I look pretty damned good!
“Nearly there, mate.” he tells me before applying a new hot towel. Now this one feels lovely. Comforting, soothing, like slipping into a flannelette onesie on a snowy evening.
This time I am disappointed when I am released, like a butterfly emerging from its chrysalis. Pleased to look so good but sorry to lose my sanctuary.
I start to rise from the Mastermind Chair, only to be pushed back for the final flourish – stinging après rasage followed by soothing moisturiser, applied to my cheeks and on the sides of my nose.
Seizing this opportunity to escape, I jump from the chair, pay my dues and rush out of the barbers shop. Two doors along is a coffee shop. I rush in and order a double espresso, down it at one gulp, my shaky hands barely able to manage the tiny cup and demand another.
As I sit there slowly regaining my equilibrium I review the experience that I have just endured. Actually, I really enjoyed most of it. You will never sell me on the flaming ears but, that aside, it was nice to have a bit of pampering for a change. I glanced around the coffee shop demanding that the other customers look at me and admire my new look. Naturally, I failed dismally – only I knew of the full transformation that had taken place. Well, me and the guy sitting over in the corner of the room looking from side to side. He looks like a man who recognises good grooming when he sees it. He looks pretty well-turned out himself.
Hang on a second – is that a mirror??
Indeed it is and over my shoulder I’m sure I can see Leroy, my barber of fifty years ago.
“Warned you man ’bout the grey hair!” He announced smugly.
“I know, Leroy, but you could have warned me about the hair loss! I might have got some treatment for it!”
As I replied to my Mum many years ago when she said, “You don’t mind losing your hair, do you?”
“Well, I would have liked to have been given the choice!”