At my Camden barber's, where a non-designer dry cut costs £8.00 and coffee means hospitality, not the hope of reward. It's more like a bric-a-brac shop, with ornaments betraying their dusty heritage. Hair-wigs hang like scalps from the ceiling; and snaps of Nicosia and Blackpool rub shoulders with photos of now-famous actors, presenters and pop stars, taken when fame was a lowly wish. On the wall above, an interesting collection of cut-throat razors, which I hope will not be needed.
The owner, Mustafa, is off today, as is the usual chat about Northern Cyprus, politics and British perfidy, interspersed with gardening tips. I sit in silence, listening to Turkish TV, as my Barnet falls victim to the scissors' snip.
For those unused to Cockney rhyming slang, 'Barnet Fair' means 'hair'. Barnet Horse Fair has been going since 1588 apparently, which makes me wonder how long my greying crop will last.
A haircut is a kind of little death, I feel, which makes me miss Mustafa's tales of atrocities even more. It's a reminder we're losing hair in the places we need it, and gaining some in the parts we don't. I miss Mustafa, for all his rants and reaction. I don't need a haircut really - and at the rate Mustafa's stand-in is snipping, might never do so again.
Like many refugees from reality, I only came in for a chat.
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