It’s July, the height of summer, and time for my summer haircut. I keep things simple: one haircut per season. Also, the process takes all morning, even if, as today, there’s a leisure centre and barber shop in close proximity. Step one is a shower at the leisure centre, and new clothes, so the barber doesn’t have to hold his nose while I’m in the chair. “How do you want it?”, he asked. My usual reply is “Let’s pretend I have a hot date tonight, so I just need to look presentable”.
That means step two: an all-over trim with the electric clippers. Grey hair tumbles onto the floor, as an elderly man stares at his own unprepossessing reflection in the mirror for rather longer than he would like. “Would you like to see the back?”, the guy says, and before I can say “No”, holds up a mirror-shaped implement; instead of reflective glass, there’s just a picture of a good haircut.
Step three is to revisit the leisure centre for another shower - for my benefit this time - because I can’t stand having hair trimmings around my collar. So another set of clothes is required. It’s good to feel a soft summer breeze tickling my scalp, and to know that I won’t need to think about another haircut until the middle of October.
Spent the morning on the narrowboat of old chums, who I'd met, purely by chance, in Hebden Bridge...