Coiffeurphobic

Last Thursday, while navigating my way through a low door-frame, I heard the familiar rustling of hair on wood, prompting me to go for my quarterly shearing.

Being in a somewhat lazy mood, I went to the local barber, despite being advised to take my custom elsewhere.

After a long wait reading women's magazines (it was either that or the brain-numbing simplicity of perusing The Sun), and just after I had put down a fascinating article by Enrique Iglesias in which he proclaims he has a large penis, it was my turn on the chopping block.

Without going into tedious details, let me just tell you that his heart wasn't in it. As I watched him in the mirror, he didn't seem to be looking at what he was doing while he buzzed around with the razor. The scissors cut was devoid of the traditional smirk-inducing 'one snip of hair for every three snips of air', and he somehow managed to make the sideburns on the left side of my head a good inch and a half higher than the right.

I'd still go back to him again though.

Why?

He was quite happy to cut away in silence, and made no effort to talk to me.

Best conversation with a barber I've ever had.