I could get used to this. I understand now why women and men fork out to have themselves pampered at barbers, hairdressers and beauty salons. Photo / 123rf
I could get used to this. I understand now why women and men fork out to have themselves pampered at barbers, hairdressers and beauty salons. Photo / 123rf
OPINION
I push open the heavy door and step up into a narrow room. Faces turn towards me. Not hostile, not friendly, just blank.
On the wall is a boar's head wearing a tweed fedora and smoking a pipe.
I feel like Dylan's Mr Jones. I don't belong here.
I haven'tstepped through the looking glass into another world - only Brothers Barber, on Bank Street. I haven't had a professional haircut in over 25 years.
A young woman holding clippers steps in my direction. I stammer that I've got an appointment for a beard trim.
She apologises that the man who was going to trim my beard is away.
"Do you mind if I do it?" she asks.
"Not at all."
She dusts off the hair from the back of the teenage boy's neck in the barber's seat and removes the hairdressing cape. The boy runs his hand through his luscious, freshly-sculpted hair and vacates the seat.
I'm secretly imagining myself being transformed to look like Sean Connery when he sported a distinguished grey beard in films like The Hunt for Red October Photo / File
She invites me to sit down. I hand over my voucher for the beard trim. I offer further explanation:
"A joke present from my daughter for Christmas.
"I've been nervous about coming. That's why I've waited so long."
"What would you like me to do?" she asks politely.
"I don't know, really. Leave it up to you. I normally just run the clippers over it. So maybe you could shape it a bit."
I don't say it, but I'm secretly imagining myself being transformed to look like Sean Connery when he sported a distinguished grey beard in films like 'The Hunt for Red October' and 'Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves'.
I lean back on the headrest and she goes to work. After a while I relax, and take in my surroundings.
It's nice. Blokey-cool. Industrial-style light fittings. Exposed brick. Lots of warm brown tones. Vintage knick-knacks on shelves.
The interior decor, including that boar's head, adds to the experience. Better, I must say, than being taken to my mother's hairdresser when I was a kid.
This could be New York. I'm thinking of all those movies with scenes in barber shops. Wise guys wisecracking.
She compliments me on the thickness of my beard. My fragile masculinity trends upwards.
I could get used to this. I understand now why men and women fork out to have themselves pampered at barbers, hairdressers and beauty salons.
It's not just about the end result, but the process of having someone else, a stranger, get intimate and attentive with your body. For a moment, you're a Caesar or a Cleopatra.
When the clippers vibrate gently on my cheek, I can't suppress a smile. It feels like I'm getting a face massage.
It takes longer than I expected. Clippers get changed regularly; scissors are brought out. Parts of my neck and face are closely shaved. She's very thorough and careful.
I'm asked if I want oil rubbed into my beard.
"Why not?"
She puts the oil on her hands and rubs them through my now shapely beard. I giggle. Not very cool.
Then comes the warm towel on my face and head. Feels wonderful.
And that's it. It's over. I'm standing up, and the next person quickly sits down in the seat that only seconds ago was mine.
I pull open the door to Bank Street and walk down to the traffic lights, perhaps a little taller, shoulders back more than normal.
The sun is shining for once. People and cars are going about their business. In an uplifted mood, The Beatles' song 'Penny Lane' plays in my head.
The song is a generous, exuberant celebration of city life, perhaps the best ever written, with the wonderful line: "There is a barber showing photographs of every head he's had the pleasure to know."
Maybe, just maybe, Brothers Barber in Whangārei is a pleasure I can dare to know again one day.
