When I was growing up, I would get my hair cut at Tony’s Italian Barber in Bedford. There was a big Italian community in the town, due to the brickworks I think. Tony the owner would snip away, while his friends would sit around playing with strange cards. While waiting I would take the opportunity to “read” the Sun and the Mirror, and listen to Chiltern FM (“transmitted from the mighty Sandy Heath transmitter“) – not my usual media. It was a spare but efficient place – I remember Tony’s straight razor scraping the back of my neck several times. They had the amusing black-and-white photos of the haircuts you could get, but would never want, and aftershave and cologne in bottles that looked like pinecones. Next to the rattly old cash register was hung a card of styptic pencils, which would stop any bleeding you walked out with. There may have been a topless pinup.
I had long hair for a while.
At college I got a set of electric clippers and would cut my own hair, No. 2 all over. Alternatively I would go to the 3-chair barber inside Afflecks Palace, and watch TV or listen to the latest 808 State while getting a £5 trim.
In London I went to a small local place, and sometimes a place at Euston Station where they vacuumed your head afterward to avoid post-snip neck tickle. When I moved to the US, Cassie insisted I go to her stylist in LA. A very pleasant experience, complete with hair washing, fashionable magazines and comfortable sofas, but it did take up to three hours, especially when she was having her hair done at the same time. In San Francisco I have succumbed to Supercuts a couple of times, through necessity and convenience, but I’ve never been happy with the results.
Finally I tried to find a regular gent’s barber downtown near where I work. There are some very trendy places in SoMa and around the Mission, but even when they’re regular barbers they are so teeth-achingly knowingly “authentic” I don’t enjoy being there. The Original Palace Barber Shop on the corner of Mission and 2nd Street, just a couple of blocks from my office, turned out to be just the place I was looking for. I nearly missed it due to a droopy awning and the fact it’s tiny, but inside are six chairs, no space, and a good basic haircut.
In fact it reminded me of Tony’s – scuffed laminate wall cladding, lino worn through to tile, strange bottles and potions on skewiff shelving. I poked my head in, a lady at the back beckoned me in and sat me down, and she only spoke to ask what I wanted and to state the price. I will be going back.
3 responses to “A Hair Cut Is A Hair Enhanced”
You’re right about the Italian community being due to the brickworks: that was in the long-forgotten days when the UK had negative unemployment, AKA ‘the labour shortage’. They actually had recruitment events in Calabria or Puglia or somewhere.
I never went to Tony’s when I lived in or near Bedford, but I still look for “proper” barbers. When I was in my teens I used to be dropped off at this old barber in Kempston who my father referred to as “Old Turk” though he was not in fact Turkish. He was a reasonable traditional barber, but was notable for using the word ‘fucking’ more frequently than anyone I’ve ever met: quite probably more frequently than anyone else in human history. What follows is not in any way an exaggeration.
“Your fucking turn, take a fucking seat. What you fucking want, fucking cut, fucking wash? Fucking round the fucking ears, fucking straight at the fucking back? Fucking weather, eh? Fucking see the fucking football?”
And then, at last appositely:
“Any fucking thing for the fucking weekend?”
Made me quite nostalgic. Our toblerones were Italian-made too I think. And our Texas Instruments. I had a few haircuts in Afflecks too (not the barbers, obv, but I remember it).
I went to Tony’s for 30 yrs. Never trusted another barber. I tried a few others but all of them either tried to style the hair or spoke to me when cutting it. I am overseas now so my hair is very high until I find what I am looking for,