to start with, not like mine. They just razor some really great shapes and look quite decent at the end of it. I stand and examine my slightly, okay, completely scruffy hair, which has a habit of standing up towards the ceiling once it gets past a certain length. I’m not sure I should go with the shapes thing. I’ll just try a straight and neat haircut. I could even film it and put it out on YouTube, do my own version of ‘How to cut your ridiculously long and out of control hair during lockdown’.
I find a guy with a good, straightforward approach. He suggests a towel round your shoulders to avoid too much mess – and I take his advice as I really don’t want to hoover again – and a pair of kitchen scissors. Has he seen the state of my kitchen scissors? No, fortunately, he hasn’t. I’m really glad I decided not to film this. I scrape a piece of bacon out of the blades and give them a scrub with some antibac liquid. I open them a couple of times having dried them carefully. Hmmm they really are slow; the blades don’t really meet properly and don’t exactly look prepossessing.
Gingerly, I take a tiny piece of hair and try to snip it across in the way the guy on the video suggests. Nothing happens. Desperately I start to saw and hack. It’s no use; I try to move the blade up the shaft of my hair because these scissors really aren’t doing anything. Oh for goodness’ sake. I fling the offending scissors down on the bed. They are crap and useless, although I guess they were quite good at cutting bacon. Wait a minute – how does that work, surely my hair’s thinner than meat? Shaking off this disturbing thought, I decide I am not going to give up; I refuse to be beaten by my hair.
I pin the towel round my shoulders and secure it with an elastic band, then arm myself with my beard trimmers. I can do this.
‘Start sooner rather than later. The longer you leave it, the harder your hair is to cut,’ the man says. He’s a bit annoying. It’s all very well for him to stand there looking all cool saying that, when he’s a fully qualified hairdresser and has perfectly sharp hairdressing scissors. He’s smug too – very unappealing. Maybe he’s right though – I’ve left it ages; I’m never going to be able to sort this awful wig hair out. Maybe if I comb it with some water it will be okay. I wet my comb and scrape it through my crazy barnet. Great, now I look like my grandad in the pre-war years. I just need a comedy stick-on moustache to complete the look.
This is ridiculous; it really can’t be that hard. I grasp hold of the beard trimmer and gently prod at the side of my head. I hardly dare look, but something definitely came off. It’s not bad. I have a neat line just above my ear.
With growing confidence I continue to clip one side of my head – it says to just do one bit at a time and then you can’t go wrong. I take a look in the mirror. I am getting pretty good at this. Yeah, this could be a new sideline when all this is over; I could become the bartending barber – cocktails and clips. I can see it now.
My phone’s going. I could leave it, but it might be Sam. I peer at the screen from the corner of my eye. Yep, it’s him. I turn off the clippers and answer.
‘What the …’ exclaims Sam. Of course, he would keep calling on FaceTime. You’d think being here all alone at least I’d have some privacy.
‘I’m cutting my hair,’ I say. ‘It was taking on a life of its own.’
‘I’m not going to disagree with you there, mate, but isn’t that a bit drastic?’
‘I haven’t finished yet, I was in the middle of the style transformation when you rang.’
‘Saved by the bell I should think,’ he jokes. ‘It’s all right, it can wait. I just wanted to show you how much Carrie has grown; but she can’t see her Uncle Jack like that, it’ll give her nightmares.’
‘Harsh,’ I reply. ‘Okay, I’ll phone you back in ten.’
I reassume my position at the mirror. This time I start at the left side above the ear, where the hairdresser bloke suggests.