First the good news: after a wait of over five months, Mrs P has at last had a proper haircut. My wonderful missus likes to wear her hair short, in a simple elfin style. The closure of hair salons during lockdown therefore made her miserable, as her locks edged inexorably towards her shoulders. A state of emergency was duly declared, and the Platypus Man was called upon to wield a pair of scissors. I think it’s safe to say I have not found a new career.
PHOTO CREDIT: Guilherme Petri via Unsplash
The government finally allowed hair salons in England to re-open on 4 July, but when she contacted her hairdresser Mrs P was dismayed to learn that other members of the sisterhood had beaten her to it. It seems that women-folk right across our neighbourhood had been suffering similar torments, but they’d been quicker off the mark in booking appointments. Five anguished weeks followed before, at last, hairdresser Sue was able to fit her in.
Returning from her appointment, Mrs P bounced into the house like a new woman. The measures the salon had put in place to protect clients and customers from coronavirus had been thorough but not onerous, enabling my good lady to relax while Sue got down to business.
And down to business Sue did indeed get, snipping, clipping and primping merrily until order was restored to my wife’s rampant mane. Both literally and figuratively, a weight has been lifted from her shoulders: Mrs P’s got her mojo back. She looks great.
But now for the bad news: my good lady has declared that I too must have a haircut. I generally avoid male barbers like the plague, being pathologically incapable of holding up my end in random banal conversations about soccer, cars or superhero movies. Instead, I let Sue sort out my hair as and when necessary. However, it’s been more than six months since I last sat in her chair of shame, and I’m enjoying a new sense of freedom.
PHOTO CREDIT: Mostafa Meraji via Unsplash
You see, male pattern baldness is embedded in my genes, and has been making its presence known for two or three decades. I’ve not got much hair left now, and I cherish every last strand that has remained faithful to me.
Moreover, I’m a child of the sixties and look back lovingly to my hippy past. OK, I wasn’t a real hippy, but I admired their hedonistic lifestyle and carefree attitude to the cultural norms of their parents. To celebrate their values, in my university years I allowed my hair to grow until it brushed my shoulders, long, thick and luxuriant.
Ah, those were the days!
It’s occurred to me in recent months that the haircutting hiatus initiated by Covid-19 offers the ideal opportunity for a new beginning. Or perhaps more accurately, the chance to relive my glory years.
I therefore boldly suggested to Mrs P that lockdown is just the beginning, that now is the perfect moment for me to grow what’s left of my hair down to my shoulders again, and maybe even to have a ponytail. Her reply was short and to the point: it’s not going to happen, and if I don’t get it cut voluntarily she’ll do it herself when I’m asleep.
Huh!
So we’ve agreed on a compromise. Mrs P’s booked her next appointment with Sue for early November, and one for me 30 minutes later. Could be worse, I guess: at least I’ll have a couple more months to enjoy my rediscovered hirsute-ness.
And with any luck we’ll be in lockdown again by November, and hair salons will be closed until spring 2021. That should give me plenty of time to explore my inner hippy. Peace, man!
IMAGE CREDIT: Stoica Ionela via Unsplash
Now I'm 64 
Hehe! Enjoy your inner hippy! 🙂
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Peace, sister 🙂
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I hair you loud and clear. I too was a child of the sixties, and that extended through my university years. You’ve seen a few shots of me in recent times, but here’s one from our wedding day in 1972 that should ring a rather resonant bell: https://krikitarts.wordpress.com/2012/05/13/fabulous-forty/. In the meantime, take advantage of the opportunity and, if it’s your choice, let it grow. BTW, love the peas sign.
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Great wedding photo. Didn’t we have style, back in the day? I keep hoping flares will come back into fashion! 🙂
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If, with “flares,” you mean what I think you mean, we called them bell-bottoms. And yes, I was wearing a pair at the wedding. Can’t say I miss them that much, though. For one thing, they rather got in the way when I was riding my bicycle.
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Yes, flares are bell-bottoms. We use both terms here.
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I also got a good laugh out of this one, Mr. P. I’m glad to know that my husband wasn’t the only one who had to help out, but he only had to trim the tips of my long hair. Mrs. P’s coiffure sounds a lot more sophisticated.
I hope you will be able to enjoy as full a head of hair in the next months as your genes will grant you. But I’m not sure I would hope for another lock-down to avoid the dreaded clipping instruments ⚔ (I couldn’t find actual scissors, let’s hope Sue’s tools won’t be quite this sharp). 😊
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True. one lockdown is one too many. And anyway, when she read this post, Mrs P advised me sternly that even if there is another lockdown my lovely locks won’t make it unscathed beyond early November. Ouch!
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Prepare thyself… 🙂
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☹
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I loved reading your hair-raising story. I sacrificed most of my best hair-growing years to the army, serving for twenty years. By the time I theoretically could have let my hair grow again as long as it was in the late early 1970’s–it was just short of touching my shoulders–most of it was gone. Quite a few years ago I got tired of paying barbers for what was too easy a job and started doing it myself. I’ll let it grow for a week or two and then use clippers to cut it close, finishing off the job by shaving my head with my 1954-vintage Gillette razor, the kind that uses the double-edge drop-in blades. Shampoo lasts me for a really long time now.
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