Just Here to Watch by SteDJ

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It was half past three one Wednesday afternoon in 1978, and as school finished, the usual noisy rabble of grey uniform-clad pupils were flooding out of the school gates to head off in their separate directions back towards home.

I was one of those schoolkids, aged fifteen, happy as ever to leave school behind for another day and as I undid the top button of my white school shirt and slackened my tie, I caught up with my mate Philip.

"Hiya Phil, got any chewing gum?"

"Alright Smithy, no, not today. You should get your own, you tight git, rather than always scrounging off me. You off home?"

"Yeah, suppose I’d better get on with my homework. That b*stard Morley’s given us another s*dding essay to do for tomorrow. You should be glad you didn’t choose English lit as one of your options. You off home?"

"Gotta go get my hair cut, worst luck. My dad told me to get it done last week, and I’ve forgotten on purpose to go to the barbers for over a week now, so there’ll be serious sh*t if I don’t get it done tonight."

"Ha ha, skit on you! I’ll come with you and watch," I giggled, relishing the thought of watching Philip’s five-inch-long locks hit the barber’s shop floor.

"Nah, you’re all right. I’d prefer it if you didn’t. The barber’s isn’t on your way anyway, and you’ve got your essay to do, remember.

"The essay can wait. I fancy a bit of a laugh first," I unhelpfully insisted, grabbing a fistful of Philip’s blond mop and miming some scissor action. "Snip, snip, snip!" Teenagers could be so cruel.

"P*ss off, Smithy, you pervert!" angrily retorted Philip as he set off running, his school blazer billowing out behind him as he quickly left me behind. No matter, I was pretty sure I knew which barbers he was going to and I quickened my pace to catch up with him. This was too good an opportunity to miss, and I soon arrived outside White’s Gents’ Hairdressers just in time to see Philip pushing the door open and entering the shop.

White’s wasn’t my regular barbers, so I was less than familiar with the place, but it looked fairly typical of its kind, and obviously had been there for some time. There was a twirly red and white pole outside the front, and a net curtain obscured the view inside. A neon sign proclaiming ‘Barber Open’ hung inside the window along with some fading black and white photos of men and boys with unfashionable short haircuts. According to various signs in the window, the place sold Durex, Wilkinson Sword razor blades and specialised in ‘Cut and Blow Wave’ â€" the latter no doubt being a reluctant concession to the hairdressing trends and longer hairstyles of the late seventies.

I followed Philip inside, and was greeted by the sight of the kind of barber’s shop that was everywhere in Britain in the seventies. The place had that usual perfumed aroma of whatever potions barbers used on their customers in those days, and an electric fan heater whirred away, pumping a feeble warm breeze into the shop. The place was dominated by two big hydraulic Belmont barber chairs with black leather upholstery, shiny white washbasins, a black and white chequered lino-tiled floor, and walls clad in that pale-brown fake wood panelling so common in the seventies, decorated with yet more pictures of unhelpful haircut suggestions. A heap of cut hair had accumulated in the corner where the barber had swept up after what appeared to have been a busy day so far of cutting and clipping, and a red vinyl waiting bench ran the width of the shop beneath the window. As was often the case in barber’s shops, not to mention doctors’ and dentists’ waiting rooms of the day, the bench was scattered with a selection of dog-eared long out-of-date magazines, the kind nobody really read.

The run had caused me to break into a sweat and it felt quite warm inside the barbers, so I took off my blazer and hung it up on the coat stand, clearly signalling my intention that I wasn’t heading off home anytime immediately.

Philip shot me a filthy look as the navy-blue nylon-coated barber, presumably Mr White, a man who appeared to be in his mid-60s and obviously between customers in the hitherto empty shop, stood up from one of the barber chairs where he had been relaxing reading the paper. He grabbed the pale blue nylon cape from the back of the chair and shook it out, ready to shroud his victim.

"Who’s first?"

What followed clearly confused the old man, as we both spoke together in a wall of animated noise:

"He’s having his hair cut; I’m just here to watch"
"He needs his hair cutting as well…"
"No, I don’t want mine cutting, it’s him who’s here for a haircut."
"He does need a haircut…"
"No, I don’t, you do…"

"Boys, that’s enough. How am I supposed to have a clue what the hell’s going on when you both talk at once? You, in this chair," said Mr White, directing Philip to the nearest of the two chairs, "and you in that chair," directing me to the far one.

"I’m only watching," I insisted as I climbed in the chair, just in time to see Philip being enveloped in the voluminous nylon folds of the huge barber cape. As Mr White firmly buttoned the back of the cape over Philip’s collar, I could see the pained look of embarrassment on his face. Mr White then turned his attention to me, and to my horror and surprise, and before I could react, I too was covered from head to toe in a pale blue barber’s cape, identical to Philip’s and also tightly buttoned up at the back.

Panic took over, and I immediately tugged away at the massive sheet to free myself, but it was easier said than done, as my arms became entangled in the huge expanse of rustling blue nylon and the buttons at my neck failed to yield.

"I’m not having my hair cut," I protested loudly, still trying to wriggle out of the cape. "I’m just here to watch."

"No, he isn’t. He’s here for a short back and sides…", countered Philip now beginning to enjoy the situation. "His dad sent him and asked me to make sure he gets it cut really short."

"Please take this thing off me, I want to get down…" I begged.

"You both look like you badly need haircuts," replied Mr White in an attempt to mediate the situation. I’ll do this lad first, and you can sit there quietly and watch. When I’ve finished with him, I’ll take the cape off you if we decide that you’re not having a haircut. Until then, sit still and behave yourself."

Much to Philip’s obvious amusement, this really hadn’t worked out as I’d intended, and even though I had a pretty good view of the action going on around Philip’s head, I hadn’t bargained for the possibility of him then being able to enjoy a grandstand view of me losing my locks to the barber’s scissors if I couldn’t think of a way out of this.

"OK, what are we doing?" asked Mr White, dragging his big back comb through Philip’s blond mop of unkempt hair. It had been a while since Philip’s last haircut, and his hair had grown over his ears, a couple of inches over his collar and when combed forward, was well over his eyes.

"Just a trim please," replied Philip, settling down in the chair and awaiting the worst.

"There are trims and trims," replied the barber, "and I think you could certainly do with a good trim…"

The scissors were soon snipping away busily around Philip’s head, sending chunks of hair a couple of inches long raining down onto his shoulders and down his front. I watched intently with morbid fascination, still sweating under the heavy nylon cape I was cruelly being forced to wear, as a sizeable mound of shorn hair soon built up in Philip’s lap, and feeling more than slightly apprehensive that barring some kind of miracle I would soon be suffering the same fate. Philip stared into the mirror with an air of resignation as his hair was cut to a length of no more than three inches on top, off his collar, above his ears and snipped into a sharp line an inch or so above his eyebrows. Whilst by the standards of today, this was not a short haircut, in 1978, hair off the ears was considered only a few steps away from being scalped. Philip should have been grateful that the only appearance of the electric clippers was to reduce his sideboards to a slanting line from the top of his ears and to buzz off the fuzz below his hairline at the back of his neck. After all, this was the seventies, and clippers were generally reserved for old men or skinheads, not for everyday trims. Mr White then gave Philip a good brushing down before unbuttoning the cape and dumping its hairy contents onto the floor next to the chair. Instead of climbing down from the chair though, Philip sat there staring at me expectantly with a stupid grin on his face, awaiting his turn as the audience for what he was hoping would happen next.

Mr White immediately turned his attention to me. My hair was not unlike Philip’s had been when we entered the shop, the main difference being that my parents were quite lenient about haircuts, and even though it had been quite a while since my last visit to the barbers, it seemed I was under no pressure to get it cut anytime soon.

"So, are you having a haircut or not?" enquired Mr White, already straightening my cape to ensure I was properly covered, and readying his scissors and comb.

Again, Philip and I both spoke at once creating again a wall of confused argument:

"No, I only came to watch my friend getting his hair cut…"
"That’s coz he’s a pervert and anyway, yes he is, his dad told him to get it cut and that’s why he’s really here…."
"No, he didn’t, he’s making that up…"
"P*ss off, Philip, you know that’s a lie…"
"You p*ss off Smithy, it’s you that’s lying…"
"I’m not f*cking having a haircut, I’m supposed to be at home doing my homework…"

"LANGUAGE, boys!!!!" yelled Mr White. "I haven’t time for all this."

The old barber was clearly quite exasperated by our incessant arguing and inappropriate language, and to my surprise, he unbuttoned the blue cape and slipped it off me, leaving me free to leave. Philip and I climbed down from our respective chairs, Philip headed over to the till to pay for his haircut, and Mr White then got the broom and began to sweep up the mound of clippings from around Philip’s chair.

Staring again at my scruffy reflection in the mirror, it was then that I began to have second thoughts. Maybe I would gain brownie points at home if I was seen to have taken the initiative to have a haircut without any kind of parental intervention. No way did I want it cutting as short as Philip’s, so as long as I could persuade Mr White that I did not need to lose hair as much as Philip had, a mild haircut began to make sense. So much to the amazement of Philip and the barber, I climbed back into the chair and announced my decision.

"Errr, I think I might have changed my mind slightly… I think I should have it cut after all… can I just have a very light trim, not too short. Would that be OK?"

Mr White quickly returned to the chair, and unfolding the big blue sheet once more, he threw it over me and secured the buttons at the back once again before pumping up the chair and picking up his comb and scissors from the counter in front of me. Philip took up his viewing position again in the adjacent barber chair where he had just endured his shearing, and looking into the mirror at my caped reflection, I took a deep breath.

I may be mistaken, but at this moment I’m sure I saw Mr White wink at Philip, before the two of them shared a brief smile. Mr White then turned his attention back to me with a determined look on his face.

No words were uttered as the barber pushed my head forward and immediately plunged his scissors into the long thick tresses covering my collar, and I felt the cold steel blade on the back of my neck as the scissors steadily moved across my nape with a loud rasping crunch. Something told me something wasn’t quite right at this point, but as Mr White quickly grabbed the sides of my head and positioned me facing forwards looking directly into the mirror, I could see no hint of anything untoward and there was not a single hair on the cape, so I momentarily relaxed again. It was then that things began to go seriously wrong, as Mr White continued snipping around my head, dramatically lopping off all the hair over each ear and snipping it into a sharp line high above my eyebrows, sending curtains of my mousy brown hair raining down onto my shoulders and into my caped lap. The incredulous shocked look on Philip’s face was enough to confirm my worst fears, and I felt sick to the pit of my stomach.

"Please, Mr White Sir, I only asked for a light trim, and you’re cutting all my hair off... please, not so short, please…"

"It’s a bit late for that, sunshine. You asked for a light trim, which in my shop means no clippers, and that’s what you’re getting."

Remembering the non-verbal communication between the barber and Philip a few moments earlier, I wasn’t totally convinced by his explanation, but I could do nothing more than watch in horror as my hair continued to rain down in vast chunks in front of my eyes. Mr White wielded his sharp scissors in an incessant onslaught of loud crunching snips, covering my shoulders and the front of my cape in a thick carpet of clippings several inches long. Philip continued to observe the nightmare from close quarters, and his look of horror had turned into a stupid grin as he sat there clearly enjoying my intense discomfiture.

Before too long, I was sporting a haircut significantly shorter than Philip’s, and there was more hair on the cape and the floor around me than what remained on my head. My emotions were in turmoil: a mixture of intense misery, anger, and fear for what people would say to me at school the next day. The haircut was now drawing to a close as the barber hacked away at the hair on top with the thinning shears. He then administered the humming clippers around my neck and then my sideboards, reducing them to the same angled line from the top of my ears, just like Philip’s. This was easily the shortest haircut I had endured in living memory and was going to take months to grow back to something respectable.

After what had seemed an eternity, but had in fact only been about 15 minutes, Mr White showed me the horrendous results of my scalping in the hand mirror, I was given a through brush-down, the chair was lowered, the cape whipped away and I was free. I immediately rubbed my hand up the back of my neck, and even though Mr White had spared me a good inch or more of hair, it was still a shock having lost three or four inches to the barber shop floor and was a very short haircut for 1978.

Now for the important things. As we left the shop, I turned my attention to Philip and the recriminations began.

"Enjoyed that did you, you git?"

"It’s your own fault, you pervert. If you hadn’t wanted to come and p*ss me off by watching me getting my hair cut, you would still have your long hair, you tw*t. So don’t blame me."

The arguments continued all the way home, but needless to say, within a week or two Philip and I were best of mates again. Funnily enough though, I never did offer to accompany him on any more visits to Mr White…

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