Mr Rhys by SteDJ

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It was the autumn of 1978, and I had just turned 13. You may remember that earlier in the year, along with my friend Simon, I had been subject to a major shearing at Mr Harrison’s barber’s shop, ending up with a brutal short back and sides. Simon fared worse - because he misbehaved and swore at the barber, his mother instructed Mr Harrison to give him an horrendous crew cut. Neither of us had had a haircut since, and five months later, I was quite pleased with the way my hair had grown back to something more appropriate in my opinion for the late 70s. Of course, I knew that I was living on borrowed time and that another haircut was bound to be looming, but as yet, nothing had been said, and I certainly had no intentions of bringing up the subject with my parents. My hair had grown out to be well over my ears and collar again, and was below my eyebrows and starting to get in my eyes.

It was the first Monday afternoon of the autumn half term holidays, and I asked my parents if it would be OK to go and call on Simon to see if he was playing out. Back in the 70s, that would mean a bike ride or a kick around with a football â€" we were an active bunch back in those days and the idea of lazing about indoors on a fine day didn’t usually enter our heads.

"Yes, of course, love. Take care and be back for teatime." My mum was probably pleased to have me out of the way from under her feet, and I set off on my Raleigh Chopper bike to pedal the half mile or so across the estate to Simon’s.

I arrived at Simon’s and rang the doorbell. Simon’s mum answered, and I trotted out the usual question, "Is Simon playing?"

"Hello Stephen. Simon’s going for his hair cutting. We’re just heading out to the barber’s now. Why don’t you come with us? You can wait for him to have his hair cut then go off and play afterwards…"

That was a curve ball if ever there was one, and I didn’t have an answer prepared â€" how could I? "No, it’s OK Mrs Watson. I’ll… errr… come back later…" There was no way on earth I was setting foot in the barber’s after what happened last time. It was far too risky.

"Are you sure? Look, it looks like you could do with a haircut as well, so why don’t I give your mum a ring and offer to take you with us? It will save her a job. Come in and wait inside." With that, she scuttered off down the hallway and picked up the phone.

Things had suddenly and uncontrollably taken a turn for the very worst, and I contemplated making a run for it. At that point though, Simon appeared, dragging his feet, head hung low and with a face like thunder.

"Hi Stephen," he muttered. "Looks like we’re both for the chop. Just had a massive row with my dad and he said I’d get another crew cut if I didn’t shut up and show some respect."

"I though you said you liked your crew cut after you’d first had it done," I said, remembering our conversation at church a few days after his shearing.

"Have you never heard of the expression ‘saving face’? Of course I didn’t like it; nobody in their right mind would like a haircut like that, except my stupid parents…" Simon ran his hand through his hair; it had certainly grown a fair bit in the five months since Mr Harrison, the demon barber, had chopped most of it off, and it was almost as long as mine.

Simon’s mother then reappeared, looking pleased with herself and brandishing the car keys.

"Right Stephen, that’s sorted," she trilled. "I’ve just spoken to your mum and she said you were getting a haircut anyway this week before school starts again, so she’s happy for you to come with us."

"Did she say how I have to have it cut?" I asked, fearing the worst.

"Same as Simon, you’re both having a good trim, off your collar and ears, and out of your eyes."

"We could go on our own, you know," said Simon hopefully. "We’ve both got our bikes, and we’re 13 now, you don’t have to come everywhere with us."

"I will be coming with you. I want to make sure you get it cut properly. It’s not that I don’t trust you, but if I’m spending my money on your hair, I want to make sure it’s done right. Now come on, stop delaying and get a move on. You can chain your bike up round the back, Stephen."

Simon let out a huge sigh, and we both filed out of the house and got into the car.

The journey into town seemed to last forever. At least Mr Harrison had retired and closed down, so there was no danger of a return visit there, but wherever we ended up could be worse, who knows?

"Where are we going?" asked Simon.

"The barber’s up on the main road next to the library; your dad went there last time and they did a good job for him. I think it’s called Leo’s"

"Could have been worse," whispered Simon. "I thought for a second she was taking us to Regent’s â€" we’d have been well and truly scalped…" The Regent Gentlemen’s Hairdressing Saloon, to give it its full title was a well-known and notorious throwback to the fifties, popular with old men but every boy’s worst nightmare. I would end up there many years later, but that’s another story, and one you’ve probably already read.

Unfortunately for us, Leo’s was open, and there was a parking space right outside.

We got out of the car and reluctantly trudged up to the front door and headed inside. At first sight, things were not as bad as I had feared â€" unlike Harrison’s, the place seemed to have a tenuous connection to the 20th century. For a start, they were playing Radio One, and the strains of The Boomtown Rats’ latest single drifted from a ghetto blaster on a shelf next to the cash till. The barber, who looked to be in his 40s and dressed in flared jeans and a wide collared open shirt I assumed to be Leo, and he greeted us with a cheery smile as we entered. Mrs Watson ushered us fussily to the red vinyl waiting bench in front of the radiator below the net-curtained window, and we sat down to survey the surroundings. The walls were clad in pale wood effect panelling and decorated with black and white pictures of men and boys with supposedly fashionable haircuts. The three big barber chairs were bright red and mounted on hydraulic metal bases with a bar under the seat to adjust the height, and a metal footrest up front. The floor was grey flecked lino and scattered with clumps of hair â€" that would surely be considered a health and safety risk nowadays through being a slipping hazard. Opposite each chair was a big square mirror, beneath which was a white ceramic wash basin with a rubber hose attached to the tap, and next to that on the counter a collection of clippers, combs and scissors. So, all in all, a typical barber’s shop of the time. There was just the one elderly customer in the chair under the navy-blue nylon cape and nobody else waiting, so hopefully this would all be over before too long. Simon and I each picked up an old car magazine and began comparing notes on the latest Ford Cortina â€" a car which everyone’s dad seemed to drive in those days, mine included, and for a while it was easy to forget where we were and to ignore the impending horror that was to follow.

Suddenly, we were jolted back to reality as the barber invited his next victim to the chair:

"Next please!"

"You!" said Simon.

"No, you!" I replied, and an argument developed between the two of us; each wanting to delay his encounter with the scissors for as long as possible.

"Simon, get in the chair!" snapped Mrs Watson in a no-nonsense tone of voice. I was saved â€" for now at least, and Simon with his face like thunder slowly and reluctantly traipsed across to the Barber’s throne and eased himself up onto the red leather cushion. Flicking his hair out of his eyes, he stared impassively into the mirror as the blue cape descended over him and the barber drew it firmly round his neck, tucked it into the back of his shirt collar and smoothed it over his shoulders. Next, the barber raised the chair high up as far as it would go in a series of sharp jolts, before turning to address Mrs Watson:

"How would you like it cut?"

"A good trim please. Cut it off his ears, out of his eyes and off his collar."

"Would you like a blade on the back and sides?"

"No, just cut it with the scissors please. And thin the top out a bit. It’s grown into a bit of a haystack since he last had it cut."

On hearing that the clippers were off-limits, I could see a look of intense relief spread across Simon’s face â€" even a slight hint of a smile.

The next ten minutes saw the barber rapidly reduce Simon’s grown out mop down to something rather neater as he wielded the scissors relentlessly across his head, sending tufts of hair flying everywhere. Scissors over comb, Leo snipped away, and the dark blue cape soon became covered in heaps of chestnut brown hair. Simon began to look a little concerned at the ferocity of the snipping â€" and so did I, as I would be getting the same â€" but the result was nowhere near as short as last time. Next, there was an attack of the thinning shears, crunching away and sending more hair to the cape as the barber reduced the weight of Simon’s hair on the top of his head. The barber finished off by taking off Simon’s fringe above his eyebrows, then trimming round his ears and across the nape of his neck with the scissors. The sideboards were sliced off at an angle from the top of his ears, and the barber had just picked up the spray bottle ready to wet Simon’s hair down, when the door opened.

To my and Simon’s surprise, in walked Mr Rhys, the director of the church choir where Simon and I both sang as choristers. Mr Rhys was a very traditional, somewhat pompous and rather flamboyant gentleman, and Leo’s was not the first place I would have expected him to get his hair cut â€" I would have expected him to be more inclined to use the services of the more traditional Regent Gentlemen’s Hairdressing Saloon.

"Well, well, well, I was just walking past and who did I see in here if not Messrs Simon Watson and Stephen James?"

Mr Rhys swaggered majestically across the shop and went over to stand next to Simon.

"Barber, I trust they’re both getting a nice short back and sides? If there’s something I can’t stand, it’s long hair sticking out over their neck ruffs…"

He was referring to the ridiculous garb we had to dress in as choirboys â€" long robes and starched frills around our necks. They not only looked stupid but were uncomfortable to wear.

"Well, this one’s mother told me not to use the clippers…" countered the barber.

"Oh nonsense, get them fired up and let’s get rid of all this," crowed Mr Rhys, tugging at the hair on the back of Simon’s head.

"Mum, what do you think?" asked the barber. Before she could answer, Simon let fly:

"No way. You said no clippers, so I’m not having them. I don’t want short back and sides, it’s OK as it is. Tell him ‘No’!"

"Calm down Simon. No, you’re not having the clippers and you’re not having a short back and sides. Proceed as we agreed please Mr Leo. And Mr Rhys, I don’t know who you think you are coming in here imposing your 1950s ideas on these boys. This is 1978, in case you had forgotten."

"Madam, you disappoint me," crowed Mr Rhys. "Beauty and elegance is not just about the music we create, but about our appearance too; the way we look. And long hair is simply a scruffy aberration of the current age."

"Well, I think we’ll have to agree to differ on that one, "diplomatically concluded Mrs Watson. "You’re in charge of a small choir of comprehensive schoolkids, not the Sistine Chapel."

A broad grin spread across Simon’s face on hearing Mr Rhys being put in his place. His haircut concluded with a scrape round the edges from the cut-throat razor, before the barber wet Simon’s hair down and then blasted it with the hairdryer, along the way creating a razor-sharp side parting. Simon certainly looked a lot smarter, and even though he had lost a fair amount of hair, it was still a couple of inches or so long on top and more than an inch on the back and sides, so nothing too extreme.

"How’s that?" asked the barber, wielding the hand mirror behind Simon’s head.

"OK…" "Too long!" "Very nice, thank you!" said Simon, Mr Rhys and Mrs Watson simultaneously. The blue cape was whipped off, the chair let down, and Simon climbed down as the barber stood staring at me, looking like a matador as he held the cape ready to shroud his next customer.

"You’re next," said Leo. "Come on sunshine, in the chair."

"Maybe Mr Rhys would like to go next?" I politely suggested, gesturing towards the chair.

"No, no. That’s very kind of you, but we mustn’t keep Mrs Watson and Simon waiting. I’m sure they’ve got things to do. So up you hop, young Stephen, it’s definitely your turn."

So that was it. I took my place in the big red chair. Even though I knew I wasn’t having the clippers, my mouth still felt dry from the scary anticipation of what was about to happen. The rustling cape fell over me and was tightly tucked in, the chair was jacked up to its maximum height, and Leo once more turned to Simon’s mum:

"And what are we doing with him? Same again?"

I started to interject, making sure that there would be no short back and sides â€" I doubt my mum would have approved that anyway, but I needn’t have worried as Mrs Watson instructed the barber to cut mine the same as Simon’s.

"Yes please. Nice and smart with the scissors like the last one."

"Phew," I muttered under my breath. "Thank God for that."

As the barber combed out my blond hair, I stared at myself in the mirror, a sea of shiny dark blue nylon surrounding my poor little head ready for the onslaught of the barber’s scissors.

The onslaught began in earnest with the barber hacking away with his scissors over comb at the hair covering my left ear. Hanks of blond hair rained down onto my shoulders then tumbled down into my lap as the scissors effortlessly moved around the back and sides of my head slicing through massive lengths of hair in their path. The barber was clearly good at what he did, and he worked away at lightning speed, the scissors little more than a blur as they filled the shop with their frantic metallic snipping sound. Next it was up and over the top, rapidly chopping off an inch or more at a time, and before long the cape was almost completely carpeted with a fine covering of my blond locks. Next it was the sickening crunching of the thinning shears â€" it nearly felt like he was pulling it out by the roots as the toothed implement from hell snagged on my hair and reduced it down further still. Then it was a quick snip of the fringe creating a hard line about half an inch above my eyebrows, and the same snipping across my neck, then round my ears and finally the same angled sideboards as Simon. Eventually the torture stopped. The result was clearly shorter than I would have ideally liked, but I could live with it. As with Simon, the final stages of the haircut were administered with the razor, the water spray, the sharp parting and the torrent of hot air from the hairdryer, finally creating a look suitable for another black and white photo to hang on the barber’s shop wall, with not a hair out of place.

"There we go, one smart haircut," triumphantly announced the barber, waving his hand mirror behind my head. "Will that be OK or would Mum like me to take a bit more off?"

Before Mr Rhys could jump in, "Mum" quickly responded that it was just fine as it was. The barber then proceeded to brush me down before dragging the cape off me and dumping the mountain of cut hair onto the floor, where it joined Simon’s and the rest of the day’s debris in a lifeless heap. I climbed down from the chair, to be replaced by Mr Rhys, who was quick to show his sneering disapproval for the insufficient damage that Leo had inflicted on me.

"If these young men will not get proper haircuts, I suppose there’s nothing much I can do about it. But I will be leading by example and having a decent haircut â€" short back and sides please, barber."

Simon and I sniggered, looked at each other, and Simon mouthed something at me, which I took to be something along the lines of "What a w*nker…"

I ran my hand up the back of my neck, and was pleased to feel that at least a bit of hair remained â€" like Simon’s, probably an inch or so, long enough not to attract too much ribbing the following week at school.

The three of us marched out of Leo’s barber’s and Simon and I immediately collapsed into fits of giggles. "What a pompous idiot! Who the hell does he think he is?"

"Those really are smart haircuts," said Mrs Watson. "He’s done it really nicely. You’ll definitely be coming back to Leo’s again. And if it hadn’t been for me, you two would probably be walking out here now with crewcuts. Think about that next time you don’t want me to take you for a haircut."

"Hmmm," Simon reluctantly concurred, "Yeah, I suppose so…"

After a couple of hours spent playing with the Scalextric racing car layout at Simon’s house, I finally got home to be greeted by my parents’ reaction to my shearing.

"Wow, that’s a super haircut!" exclaimed my mum. "Turn around, let me see the back. Where did you get it done?"

"Leo’s, next to the library. Mr Rhys was there and he wanted us to get scalped, but Mrs Watson overruled him and saved the day."

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