Sunday, 13 January 2013

The barber


When I was very small, my father would put a bottle of milk into one pocket and a nappy into the other, and off we'd go. I'd sit in the front seat of the Zephyr, right next to him on the bench seat. The culture of wearing seat belts had yet to be invented. We'd go the the barber on Stoney Lane. I'd sit, enthroned, in a big barber's chair, while my father waited his turn. Short back and sides, and a Brylcreem finish. The barber would cut my fringe. We went to other places too, but what I remember best is the barber's shop, with the striped pole outside, the chairs in a line facing the mirror, the room full of men and chat. And feeling safe, and knowing this manly world was benign, and meant me no harm.

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