An eternal haircut June 13, 2006Posted by BiB in Uncategorized.
The thing is, I frankly need to be pretty. Some old friends are in town and I need to impress, and it ain’t easy, as they’re heterosexual Scandinavians, who are hard-wired to be effortlessly drop-your-Calvins gorgeous. Then RFM organises a get-together every now and then which brings together bloggers and other Berlin luminaries and I want to go this week, so I need to be pretty for that. And then, as I’ve already mentioned, a funky New Yorker is in town at the weekend, so I need to impress again. It’ll be one long impress this week. (Fuck, fuck, WHEN am I going to work?) Plus, I know I look ludicrous with the Hugh-Grant look which I’ve been sporting, sort of unintentionally, of late, and as Russians don’t do subtlety and feeling-sparing, I’ve occasionally noticed the odd look of utter dumbfoundedness on the Russian’s beautiful features as I loom into view and it’s beginning to give me BSE. Anyway, I’m much posher than that guttersnipe Grant, so had decided the dumbing-down look had to go.
So I’ve gone for the Wayne-Rooney look instead.
But haircuts are traumatic. And an eternal one would be a much worse ordeal than what that geezer who had to push a rock uphill for ever in the underworld had to face. And it’s far more incisive a bout of self-analysis than going to a confessional or a shrink. For what else is there to do as you sit and stare at yourself for half an hour but navel-gaze?
My hairdresser was a nice old lady. With a lived-in face, a rotund figure and clearly a long-term alcoholic, she still lorded over the establishment as if it was her living room. She had a lovely old chat with the oldish man in front of me – why need anyone wear brown socks? – and I slightly worried I wouldn’t be able to give her as good chat as he had given, especially as the whole exchange was conducted in pure Berlinois.
But we didn’t do too much chat. A bit of football, once she’d recovered from the shock of realising she had a foreign customer. She looked on mystifiedly and sympathetically as I tried to express what it was I wanted before sneaking off round the back for, I’m guessing, a quick shot of Jägermeister. (I must learn German for short-back-and-sides. Mullet is the limit of my German hair-vocab so far.) But then she left me to stew in my very own mirrored confessional. (And they even dress you like a vicar for a haircut here. White dog-collar and black cassock.) “Who are you fucking looking at?” I leered wordlessly at the gent leering back at me. “What have you done with your life?” “Why have you considered it acceptable to inflict that non-cut hair on all and sundry?” And was that a glimpse of multiple chins as she pushed my head downwards with all the force of someone attending one of Berlin’s more flagrant gay parties but I strained to not lose sight of myself anyway in case it was a particularly revealing moment? “And since when has my left eye been 18 times the size of my right?” It was agony, I tell you. And I couldn’t get out of the place quickly enough once the nasty business of paying was dealt with, back into the deliciously hot Berlin air.
But it was worth it. Just you wait till I see you all, pals. I’m as pretty as a picture.