When I was in secondary school (out Wesht), I went to the local barber. He is, in country fashion, a laconic chap that, being the nerd that I was (still am, only nerdier), I didn't have a clue how to talk to. For the 5-10 minutes that I sat in that chair, there was an itchy silence peppered with "how's your mother?," "are you busy these days?," a "lovely/terrible weather we are having...", etc.
When I was in college, I went to... you guessed it, the local barber. The opposite to my previous one. A chatty fellow with that nasal Dublin accent. Generally he spoke to the other barber, or offered me his opinion on the latest news from the Sun or Mirror.1 So again, it was not particularly relaxing as 10 minutes go.
The last time I was in Ireland, I met up with one of my mates, Neil. While we were chatting, I mentioned my reluctance to get my haircut in Antwerp. I had been putting it off for a while. Partly I didn't feel settled in Antwerp, and partly I wasn't happy with my Dutch. I wanted to at least try to speak it when I went in. He observed:
It doesn't matter what language the barber speaks; he is the one holding the scissors. When they ask you at the end if it is OK, you say,"Yes."
I feel rather silly for deferring it for so long. It was a million times better than getting it done in Ireland.
I got haircare advice (apparently my hair is too dry). He even put clips in my hair so that he could layer the sides! Clips! Sides! It turned out that he had studied Greek literature in College and he was planning to read Joyce's Ulysses. So we chatted about books as he snipped away.
It was thoroughly enjoyable and actually relaxing.
Screw you, Barbers of Ireland, you ain't touching this again.2
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1I don't mean to sound snobby, there are nerdy equivalents thereof that I drawl about ad tedium, that other people would have no interest in hearing about.
2I don't know if you can see it, but I am pointing at my head.
2I don't know if you can see it, but I am pointing at my head.
