Shear Paradise

I have a Britney Spears relationship with my barber.

I experience culture shock every time I go; being raised to believe £10 was the right price for a haircut, paying £7 makes me feel wonderfully white trash. The walls are covered in cut-throat razors, newspaper clippings and family portraits; the barbers speak to each other in Arabic (or something), whilst making fun of the customers; and the main clientele have just stepped off the boat.

I seldom go there, partly because I hate spending money and partly because I’m desperately scared of the place. Each time I do however, I ask to have my hair cut short. And for some reason my barber always seems reluctant to do so.

I thought it was communication issues. Being beautifully Asian, with an accent stronger than the average Bristolian’s blood alcohol level, he no doubt considers my Thanet accent (imagine the Queen’s English as spoken by cockneys) as impenetrable as his own, and so neither of us are particularly sure what each other is saying, the same way that you may not be particularly sure of the meaning of this rambling sentence and have to read the whole thing again to get the point.

But he had other reasons for avoiding my shearing desires.

This time I carefully explained the concept of “an inch” to him to make sure he understood and reluctantly, after much questioning, he acquiesced.

I noticed his hands running through my hair, his cold, smooth palms pressing against my scalp. It was exotic. His reflection seemed more handsome than normal; I found myself enamoured to him. Then I realised. He was unintentionally giving me a head massage, his hands sending a heated thrill down my body.

I’m gay. I may lose some of my slower readers for being so blunt, but frankly I can do without them. I’m pretty straight acting (finding camp acting an outmoded theatrical style) but some things, like wearing Pinky and the Brain T-Shirts, may give away my natural tendencies, especially to straight men who, I assume, are on the look out for such things.

And having my head massaged by a tall, dark straight man – well - it felt good.

And that’s why my young masculine barber, whose straight as a Muslim and can spot gay from 50 paces, makes me keep my hair long – so I can’t feel his hands pressing against my scalp, don’t get a strange rush from it, and he doesn’t have to deal with a homosexual’s unwanted and unexpected sudden attraction to him.

That’s why he was reluctant to cut my hair short. That’s why it was so hard to make him do it. And that’s why I’ll be going there more regularly from now on.

At £7 a go it’s the cheapest happy ending I’ve ever had.

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I seem to write about the Barbers quite a lot possibly because it's the only contact I have with straight males. Here's an old article on the woes of haircuts from the now archived Freelance Cynic Site

Some Previous Feature Lengths

• The re-fitting of the Lord of The Rings
• The all new Agoraphobia
• A declaration of love
• Things that go Bump in the late Evening
• Don't. Imagine. Your handy