And so while having my hair played with the other night I was asked why I like it so much and whether I get the same from having my hair cut.  And that reminded me of an old journal entry I wrote years back.  I reproduce it here as it still holds true and I think it makes an amusing read (you can find the original here):

Heterosexual haircuts

I love getting my hair cut (which I did today, hence the thoughts – duh) as I find it a very sensual experience. I, like most guys, love having my hair played with, stroked, scratched, tussled and twisted, preferably by a beautiful young lady (though beggars can’t always be choosers – actually, one of my friends occasionally plays with my hair when I bump into her for a short while which I like very much). Within seconds my head sags towards my chest, I lose the power of speech and coherent thought and I start purring like a big, hairy pussycat. I could sit there for ever while someone plays with my hair.

So, going to the hairdressers is great for me. My stepsister is a hairdresser which, though cool for free haircuts, isn’t quite the same as getting it done in a salon (and being my stepsister, completely changes the dynamics so I don’t get that feeling). I went to this place in Brighton a few times when I lived down there and had a wonderful time. Bit pricey (but then if you’re used to free cuts you can’t really complain) but you got the full works (at least for a guy with short hair).

It started with a cup of coffee and a magazine and then you were taken to the washing area and introduced to whoever the younger trainee was. Invariably she was a pretty blonde with enormous breasts and a massive smile. She would tilt you back and start wetting your hair but not from the side – no – she would lean right across you leaving her breasts hanging directly in front of your eyes. The first few times I tried to look any where except straight ahead but eventually I realised that there was no where else to look. Indeed she seemed to get upset if you didn’t stare directly at her cleavage while she chatted about how great it was you don’t have a receeding hairline yet. I eventually figured that it was part of the service so just lay back and enjoyed it.

She would finish of by drying your hair and then giving you a head massage while you waited for the stylist. Heaven!

The stylist would then come over and she would invariably be in her mid-twenties, incredibly pretty, again blonde but with slightly smaller breasts (though I did once have my hair cut by a woman with breasts so large that she couldn’t get close enough to me to cut so she kept shifting them out of the way by resting them on my shoulders – most disturbing!). The kind of person who (at my age then) was a few years out of your league and you would kill to ‘know’ socially (of course I was younger then and didn’t ‘appreciate’ women as I do now…*ahem*).

She would again start running her fingers through my hair for 5 mins while she discussed what I wanted doing. She would then start and spend the next half an hour or so enquiring as to whether I had a girlfriend and what was she like (something I’m sure they are trained to do to give hope to the younger more impressionable males – not me of course!).

When done the next age of woman would come over, stern yet increadibly stylish in a sharp suit and shirt, early 30s, powerful, beautifully majestic and enough to make most (again – young) males weak at the knees. She would then check the cut and could (literally) whip you into shape. Ah…happy memories! I loved that place.

So, Tooting is kind of different. To say the least. Since coming here (except for the odd occasion when I’ve gone home – and considering I only go home 3 times a year I have been known to weigh it up with getting a free haircut), I’ve gone to Tony’s. Life is simple at Tony’s.

I can walk in there any day of the week (except Wednesday) without an appointment and can invariably get a cut straight away. The few occasions when he’s not sitting reading the paper in an empty (I hesitate to use the word) salon you will only have to wait a maximum of 5 mins which is just enough to gleam the salient ‘articles’ in the Sun. You then sit down at the call of ‘yup’, a blanket is put over your shoulders and he replies, ‘the usual?’ while spraying you with a plant mister filled with water (wash your hair? Surely no need). One after the other, out come the clippers, out come the scissors, out comes the straight razor (with a new blade which is more than some do round here – it also starts off my internal Gerry Rafferty impression as he rounds my ears – something I started doing involuntarily and now can’t stop). He finishes off by dipping his hands into a pot of what looks like mouldy yak semen (though it smells quite nice) and ‘sculpting’ my hair into something that in no way approximates the way I entered. I don’t like this stuff and it takes about 4 days of intensive washing to get out but I haven’t the heart to ask him not to as he’s been doing it so long and it seems to make him happy.

That’s it – no speaking, 5 mins max and £7. Marvelous! Sure, it’s not the greatest cut in the world but my hair’s messy anyway so it actually suits me and it’s cheap and quick. Minimal hassle.

Today he actually spoke to me and even exhibited some signs of (?)pride: *Concerned look* ‘Has someone else cut your hair?’, ‘Er, no’ I replied thinking quickly to wonder if I had been caught out inadvertantly betraying our relationship. *Quizzical/disbelieving look* ‘I trim my sideburns when they get too long’. ‘Ah – that’s it. I cut your hair for so long now that I recognise other work’. Return of normal sullen (yet content) look. All this with a European accent (I love accents but am rather vague at where they are from – for me they are either: bad, ‘a (insert continent/land mass) accent’ or sexy). He then proceeded to grill me with a ‘You from George’s? When do you all break up?’ swiftly followed by ‘You have big party for Christmas?’ Then back to the traditional and comforting awkward silence.

Tony only cuts mens hair – heaven knows what he would do if a woman ever came in. Layers and colour treatment? 5 mins!

So, kind of a different hair dressing experience but it does the job until I qualify and get a wage to pay for the luxury of a proper salon.

Ha.  It’s weird reading that back again from all those years ago (12th June 2004).  I tidied up a few of the spelling errors and cut out the non-haircutting stuff but it pretty much stands as it did then.  I’m just reminded so much of my age and how much more youthful I came across.  Still makes me laugh too.