Newspaper article The Evening Standard (London, England)

My Coiff Is Really a Snip; despite Always Hating Having His Hair Shorn, Our Man Finally Gives in to the Cutting Edge of Style

Newspaper article The Evening Standard (London, England)

My Coiff Is Really a Snip; despite Always Hating Having His Hair Shorn, Our Man Finally Gives in to the Cutting Edge of Style

Article excerpt

Byline: RICHARD GODWIN

A[pounds sterling]15 HAIRCUT launched David Cameron onto the front page of the Telegraph the other week: his parting had moved from right to left. What did this say about Tory politics? Very little. What does this say about the importance we, as a society, place on hair? Lots.

I find the whole vanity-fuelled business of hairdressing deeply depressing.

It makes me, quite literally, want to tear my hair out.

I dislike visiting the barber even more than the dentist. It would be no less traumatic if they stood behind me with shears, lopping off bits of my head. I hate staring at my mug in the mirror. I hate the cloying small talk.

I hate how it never turns out how you want.

I still bear the scars of a terrible day in 1995 when I asked my local barber for a "Liam Gallagher"; the results suggested he was an unusually spiteful Blur fan. I have never experimented since. Indeed, I go as seldom as possible, and usually wear a sort of floppy, overgrown mullet, looking like a foppish wrestler.

Recently my girlfriend suggested my discomfort was down to the cheapness of the establishments I frequent.

Once, in a quest to pay less than a tenner, I became the first white man in Afro Cuts in Shepherd's Bush (a traumatic experience). Nowadays, for convenience, I usually go to a dreadful place near my work - Eurotrash does Sweeney Todd.

But when a friend came back from Brooks & Brooks in Holborn, enthusing about the experience and looking genuinely dapper, I let myself be persuaded to be a bit more adventurous.

The fact that he said they brought him a beer clinched it - I made an appointment.

Wandering in on Saturday morning, I was reassured by the numerous awards in the window and Franz Ferdinand on the stereo. It wasn't quite the Carlsberg best barbers in the world that I'd pictured (no barbershop quartet for a start), but it did have a pleasing air of low-key professionalism, and my man Brent set about his business with a capable, confident, uncamp sense of purpose. …

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