A Louka

I went to a posh salon place in Glasgow once, paid £45 and came out looking like I’d had my hair cut by Michael J. Fox flailing some garden shears in my general direction. I’ve realised that when it comes to haircuts, cheapness is way up there on my list of priorities.
«What? But but, even above fancy décor?»
«Shyzer yeah.»
«Trendy music?»
«Couldn’t give a flip guv. I’ll listen to my own brains, which are awesome, thankyouverymuch.»
«But what if we offer you the latest brand of Play-​Doh smelling hair spunk to smear over your freshly cut barnet?»
«Shut your face and show me the back of my head please.»
«But do skilled hair-​cutterers mean nothing to you?»
«Oh, you’ve got me there, you clever noggin you.»
Of course cheapness is not above the actual ability to cut hair. But if Barbers didn’t spend all their money on Sky Sports, wanky magazines like Wallpaper* and Bo Concept soft furnishings, then they’d be able to afford to employ better hairdressers. If you don’t believe me, take a trip to Shoreditch, where you’ll see hoards of poor souls sporting wonky coiffures and pubey moustaches, forever destined to ride their yellow fixie bikes around Hoxton in search of a satisfactory haircut.
A sad state of affairs indeed.
But if they just moved to Barnes, this place would sort them right out. It’s run by a lovely bloke who always calls you «Sir», always makes sure that the water in the sprayer thing isn’t too cold in the winter, and always comments that the water from the same sprayer must be «Nice and cool, sir» in the summer.
I’ve been a good few times, and if I remember rightly it’ll run you about £12. Twelve quid! You’re probably thinking that it’s not that cheap. Well, it isn’t if you just want a clipper run over your nut. I mean, I’d cut my own hair if I could. I got some fancy clippers for Christmas, but I’ve got a spazzy eye which would mean it’d probably go all wrong and I’d end up shaving a knob on the back of my head, so I just use them for trimming my manly George Michael-​esque designer stubble. But it’s good value if you get the fella to use his scissor skills.
And skills he does have. I truly believe that after crafting your hairdo into the pinnacle of what could possibly adorn your noodle, if you asked him to take 2 millimetres off the top, he’d do it, and be happy with the challenge. And the crux of the matter is that you get what you ask for when you go here. He’s not some knobhead with Craig David’s facial hair and an Ed Hardy t-​shirt, hell-​bent on making you look like a member of Take That circa 1992. No no, the proprietor takes pride in his work, and wants you to be happy, and I see no reason to go anywhere else. He also wears a shirt and tie, and a fetching blue overcoat a bit like those ones Ronnie Barker wore in ‘Open All Hours’. Right on.
In closing, I look better when I come out than I did before I went in. That’s what she said. HA!
WICK:
— Much cheapness!
— Awesome old school décor that hasn’t changed in at least 40 years!
— Laugh at the Durex family planning adverts!
— Good haircuts too!
CRUD:
— Old school cape things aren’t great at stopping the hair get down the back of your neck.
— Spot the rogue apostrophe in the handwritten sign!
— I think it’s cash only, and the cash register is just a wooden box. Security needs an upgrade methinks.
PS: My friend said there’s a chain of barbers in the US that are the equivalent of Hooters — i.e. a lovely lady with pneumatic funbags cuts your hair whilst you drool into your cape thing and try to forget that you’re paying her to touch you. Well, if that’s the only way you can get pretty ladies to touch you, then you’re a sad sad man, and you have my pity.