• Cliff Buchler, former managing editor of Caxton West Rand writes:
When on an away holiday in Joeys, a haircut is the last thing on your mind.
But when temperature and humidity hit, long sweaty hair becomes a damp and scratchy accessory. And threats of divorce. But old-fashioned barber shops are hard to find in big towns – and my head had become accustomed to the beatings of Johan, Eloise, Sammy, Melissa and lately, Koos – all wielders of old-fashioned hedge clippers. And all prolific creative yappers.
However, fate stepped in and I found just the place in some West Rand mall: “Mediterranean Barber – Cheap & Chop-chop.” Entering the tiny abode I was greeted by a male sporting a thin black moustache and sailor’s cap. “Hi. Sit. How?”
The accent could’ve been anything from Greek, Arabic, Portuguese, Sicilian, to French, but his monosyllabic utterances made it impossible to detect.
As I flopped into an ancient chair that had evidently succumbed to the rigours of a torture chamber, the barber vacuum-packed me with sheets of white linen and throttled me with a thick plastic necklace – to keep fine hairs out, or further symbols of torture? Mafia leanings?
He set about his task with alacrity, but without the usual barber’s prattling. I broke the ice.
“Where you from?”
Snip-snip-snip. “Yes. Thank you.”
Perhaps he didn’t hear me above the sound of his scissors. “How’s business doing?
Snip-snip-snip. “Yes. Thank you.”
Tried once more: “How long have you been here?”
Snip-snip-snip. “Yes. Thank you.”
I gave up, closing my eyes while he did his thing. Must’ve been the snip-snip and raspy Godfather-like breathing that lulled me into a deep sleep.
Startled, I awoke with, “Yes. Thank you.” A further shock awaited me. In the mirror I espied unusually long ears with a brush cut between, and eyes as big as saucepans.
“What the flipping flowers did you do with my hair?”
“Yes. Thank you. Fifty-five rand special for pensioners.”
“Do you do this to all your customers?”
“Yes. Thank you.”
The only sensible answer.
While escaping from the persecution precinct, I again caught sight of the signage. The word “chop-chop” sprang out. Reporting him to the ASA for misleading advertising wouldn’t work, because that was exactly what the Med boy had done to my beautiful curls.
One good thing, I wouldn’t need a haircut until next spring. Then I’ll be home and back to a choice of hedge cutters, jokes and skinder.
