And Peppered Was His Hair (1/2) By Kenton Hall

(1/2), (2/2)

All of life's lessons - and I mean the important life-changing ones here, not the ones involving keeping the cutlery and appliances segregated - can be learned in the hairdressers. Of this I have no doubt. The above is exactly the sort of ridiculous statement that writers should avoid when beginning an essay, as it paints you into a very tight corner - or more correctly, sweeps you into a corner like a mound of black-marketable split ends. Obviously, there are many life lessons which can not be learned at the hairdressers, unless you frequent an extremely liberal establishment which caters for disastrous drug experiences, the birth of children, marriages, divorces, deaths and any number of nude or nearly-nude acts which will have an eternal bearing on your development as an individual.

However, for the purposes of this piece - everything worth knowing can be learned sitting in a chair, wearing a robe that would make a D&D role-playing aficionado feel conspicuous and having strangers surround your head with sharp implements, many of which have suspicious rust-coloured stains along their most lethal-looking points. Personally, I have never enjoyed the experience of having my hair cut.

I'm not terribly vain - in that I worry immensely about my looks but I don't feel as though I can do anything about it, and, frankly, I'm pretty tired most of the time - but I am hugely self-conscious and to me, it's just a compressed collage of every disappointment and rejection I've ever suffered. Also, when I was five, my Grandfather nicked my ear with scissors and I had to sit through a cinema showing of The Fox and the Hound whimpering quietly to myself and swearing revenge. It's been 25 years now, so when I finally get around to it, I'll have the element of surprise. Nonetheless, there are things I have learned and, in the interest of filing a new column while anyone is still paying attention, I wish to share:

1. The head massage you have just received does not mean that the person cutting your hair has fallen madly in love with you. This is a very important point to remember. For some reason, no matter how much damage they subsequently go on to wreak upon your head, every hairdresser in the world somehow manages to make the act of shampooing the most erotic experience of your entire life. Frankly, any combination of hands and moisture works for me, but it does suggest an explanation for the length of the robes.

And it starts off so innocently, as well - as all one's best dirty stories do.

"Please, sir, take a seat and we'll get you shampooed," he or she will purr lasciviously. (Whatever the more homophobic gentleman or lady may maintain, the sex of the hairdresser doesn't matter in the slightest. If you're getting turned on by having your hair washed, you're pretty open to ideas in the first place.) Now, it bears noting that the lascivious purr you heard was, actually, a flat business-like tone uttered by someone who has been doing this day in and day out for three years because they flunked their English Literature final and, to be honest, they're a little bitter about it.

But you settle into the chair and have a towel placed around your shoulders. "Are you comfortable?" they ask.

"Oh yes," you say, trying not to sound creepy. (I worry more about this since my temples started going prematurely grey. A dirty young man (which is what I actually am) is much more acceptable than a dirty old man.) Warm water begins to cascade against your head. "Is that alright for you, sir?" The sir (or madam) is a big part of the attraction. It makes you feel important, powerful... as though they are counting on your $12.50 to pay for the roof over their heads, the meagre amount food in their bellies and the collection of battery-operated appliances that get them through the long, winter evenings.

"Oh yes..." You could give a damn about creepiness now, and the rubbing hasn't even started. Ah, the rubbing... What with one thing and another, it would seem that every pleasurable experience in life always kicks up a notch when the rubbing begins... and this is no exception.

Continued...Next Page (2/2)

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