Posts Tagged ‘barber shop’

Back In the Saddle

January 9, 2009

It’s been a while. I’ve been doing other stuff. Motorbike stuff. And writing stuff.

My novel is with the publisher and his editor had me working on a lot of fronts. It’s getting there and is a bit ahead of schedule.

But the real reason to blog is a recent find. I found a real old fashioned men’s barber shop not too far from my new job. Not the normal 21st century metrosexual hairdresser. A real men’s barber shop with a pile of fishing magazines sitting there and the cricket on the radio up on the shelf.

Neville has been working this shop for forty years. He came home from Vietnam, got to work, and has not stopped. I think the only thing that has changed in all that time is the date on the magazines.

His prices are also from a bygone era. Where else do you get a haircut for $11.50? Nowhere, that’s where. And he’s a good man with a pair of scissors.

Finding Neville in his shop is even enough to get me blogging again. Wonders will never cease.

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Makin’ Tracks

September 21, 2008

“Hey Dad, this time I want tracks.”

“Fantastic. Tell me what that means.”

“You know. Tracks. In my hair. On the sides. Two above each ear.”

“Tracks? Sounds like you mean GT stripes.”

“Here and here, that’s what I mean.”

“OK. Let’s do it”

That’s how it began, more or less. Tracks. In his hair. He was about eight years old.

I’d always cut his hair when he was little. Asked a hairdresser friend how to layer cut and it was all systems go from there.

A conscious decision back then was to let him have anything he wanted in the way of hairstyle. I’d learned that lesson in high school.

It was about 1963. My brother was into his hair. Kookie was on TV, always combing and flicking and grooming. My brother took on the look. And the comb, flicking his Brylcremed forelock back with style and precision. The girls formed a queue. He got out of the swimming pool one day with his hair clinging down around his head. “Dare you to come to school like that tomorrow.” It was one of the girls. Maybe it was more that one. So he did.

He was sent to the principals office – then sent home. “Don’t come back until it’s respectable.” Above the ears, short back and sides, military precision, all that stuff. Our Mum was not into foolishness. She marched him right back to the school and had it out with the principal. School was about educating her kid’s heads, not about shearing them. Mum won. Who’d have guessed it?  Suddenly the Beatles shut down the world’s barber shops and nothing was ever the same.

Fast forward to the next generation and my son wants tracks. “We can do it!” I said. So we did. After all, I was only there to learn.

He was a style-leader in a moment. A fashionista. He had a cool Dad and a cool head. Every kid in school wanted one.

Fast forward another twenty years. Eight year old boys are into tracks. It’s on again. Back in fashion. I point it out to my son. He grins. We both know. He was a fashion leader. Before his time. Going where nobody had gone before.

Everybody should have such memories.