The Haircut
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At 84, getting my hair cut is less of an event and more of a quick pit stop. It’s a swift affair—blink, and you might miss it. The conversation usually goes something like this: “How do you like it, sir?” “Number three all over,” I reply, in a tone that suggests I’m a man who knows what he wants, even if it is the most straightforward of haircuts.
In Australia, there’s a bit of a social divide when it comes to where one gets a trim. Barber shops are the domain of men and boys, where the scent of aftershave lingers, and you’re in and out before you can say “short back and sides.” Hairdressing salons, on the other hand, are where the ladies go—usually a bit pricier, more glamorous, with a touch of gossip floating in the air along with the hairspray.
But here’s the thing—I quite enjoy a visit to the hairdressing salon. Yes, it’s a bit of a rogue move for an old chap like me, but it’s usually easier on the wallet, and let’s face it, the company’s a bit more delightful. There’s something rather lovely about sitting amidst the chatter, catching snippets of conversations about everything from the weather to the latest reality TV scandal. And the best part? I get to chat with the lovely ladies up close. A cheeky smile, a bit of banter—what’s not to like?
So, while my hair might be thinning, my appreciation for a good haircut—and good company—is as strong as ever.