Martin Bridgeman

One year on and I’ve come across a Facebook post from April 2020, where I told the world about my (then) latest trichological difficulty. Like many people, I had noticed that my hair was growing, seemingly at an alarming rate. I had tried hats, pomades, oils, but there was no halt. I’d almost completely horrified my family by posting pictures.

Many less hirsute men of my acquaintance told me in no uncertain (one might say, bald) terms how they felt about my ‘complaint’. I almost deleted the picture, but, that was me then.

My hair, in May, 2020, was still not the longest that it had been for almost 40 years. Throughout my teenage years (when I finally had the freedom to select another option to the short back and sides with a parting). I tried to tame it, shame it, oil it, smother it and shape it. I persisted but failed and I was a regular customer at the barbers on Drimnagh Road

I remembered, again, the barbers’ shop over McCanns’ pub. Two always smiling men in purple nylon shop coats, always a cigarette on the go, both well groomed, well ‘turned out’ as my mother would say: a phrase I never fully understood and still don’t if I’m honest.

There was a transistor radio too, gently insisting itself on one of the mirrored shelves, above pictures of all manner of trendy cuts (from the 1960s usually). There was a selection of scattered and well handled newspapers on the chair, typically opened at the racing pages. The shelves held various display bottles and jars of all manner of lotions and potions, none of which held any attraction for teenage me, nor for most of the men whose usually were there there for a simple cut, with perhaps a drop of oil (or Brylcreem?) and occasionally a winning tip for the afternoon’s visit to Joe Browne’s Turf Accountants next door.

The radio volume was only raised if there were races or matches and there was certainly no noticeable music playing, but I’m sure there was. Most of the customers were much older than me, and usually benignly ignored me as they argued about tips and matches, score an no score draws and fixtures, the key ingredients for the pools with chewed pens at the ready for the 5:00 p.m. results. They would be in for a pint after, too, another ritual still ahead of me. There was almost no small talk, or at least, none that interested me in the 70’s. One of my father’s friends might recognise me, comment on how I’d grown up, later commiserating on how good a man he was was and how he had gone too soon and ask to me to say hello to my mother. After all, I was a geeky teenager then, in for a haircut without a parent, so we had little in common.

Most of the time the gentlemen barbers would efficiently do their professional best to please me (although more usually my parents) with a simple short back and sides. There was a soothing rhythm, a ritual, the ambient sounds of cutting, shaving, oils smells, and the mini cascade of hair on to the apron that was familiar, part of a habit. Then there was the re emergence, the therapeutic feeling as the coda arrived, the final razor tidy, the look around and the final flourish of the scissors, the mirror to the back of the neck . I can see now that the ritual and silence was meditative.

Then, like the final benediction, the final question: “All okay? Would you like something in it?”, and then, my standard teenage answer in the negative, the ceremony and ritual complete. Another smile, the song of the till, the familiar shuffle of coin and occasional rustle of paper.

The final part of my childhood cut had always a little hair oil to slick the cut, always commented on with the comment: “Ah, you’re a smasher now”, the final seal of parental approval.

My hair never changed colour after the oil went on and I found this fascinating. My father Mick’s hair went from shock white and fluffy after his bath to a darker hue when the Brylcreem went in. Years later, an greying friend explained the mystery of the darkening when he’d had the ‘oil change’.
In line with the times, as a result of Mick’s hair routine, there were always the antimacassars, coverings for the back of the chair to catch the oil ‘spillage’ and the frequent complaint when my mother changed the pillow cases. I was too small to effect any real change myself when I had the oil change but I was warned to keep sitting up straight if I was on the armchair watching television.

All was good after the cut. I felt neat, slick, tidy, the little professional wink from the barber a sign of a job well done as we said our goodbyes, the little lift and confirmation that I was indeed, neat, slick and tidy.

Until the following day…

After a night’s sleep my hair took control again, imposed its own order and I looked like, once again, that I had not so much a ‘bed head’ as a ‘ditch head’. Hair nets were discussed as a possible solution but dismissed almost immediately. I wonder now if that was just a joke but hadn’t copped on to Maisie’s sense of humour at that stage. A variety of hair dryers borrowed from cousins would be employed but given back as it had no effect. In the fight for the top of my head, there was only ever one victor.

I apparently had a calve’s lick and a double crown, words said first to my parents as if to say : “I’ll do me best, but…” It became a mantra, almost like an affliction that needed attention. In on my own, and with punk and hippie styles clashing, I was at that stage where I discovered I could actually say what I wanted. I always wanted a tight cut with a parting and, every time I asked, I was told: “Don’t fight it, a parting will never work, just keep it off the collar and keep it clean. Run your hand through it of a morning and it’ll do the rest itself.”

Did I listen? Eh, that would be a no, but we figured out a compromise and I just took more care of it to minimise my daily dishevelment. As I became indifferent, and less bothered trying to fit in to the spiky and tight cuts abounding on my friends heads, the curls always made their presence felt and now, in my more still self conscious years, it was a source of some embarrassment. In my first ‘proper’ job, as well as the usual ‘new guy’ slagging, there would be a frequent comment about my curls, which was no help is staving off my red faced responses. I did, in fairness, get over it and myself and slipped in to the world of work with generally tidy hair.

The beard came in school and stayed mostly and it was given some care and attention as and when. A friend once offered to buy me a medallion when my look tended to Bee Gee proportions. It’s now finally headed towards full grey and I keep it tidy. On that point, on the occasions I have shaved it off it has usually been accidental, a DIY job gone too far.

One evening, in a rush and in another vain attempt to be on time for a date with my now wife (then girlfriend), I managed to make a hames of the beard and shaved it all off rather than waste time on a replair job. I grabbed a taxi and was almost on time and waved to herself to see if she wanted a drink, forgetting that she had never seen me beardless. All she saw, while waiting for me, was some head-the-ball waving at her to see if she wanted a drink…In retrospect I got away lightly…

While I don’t think I’m particularly vain, I almost deliberately avoided the mirror when I knew it was time for a cut and brush up. Close friends grew to know how I was actually feeling by the state of it, a sort of emotional weather vane. Free and easy usually meant I was not bothered, and usually in good form, whereas tight and tidy usually meant an interview, a date or both. A full beard shave was a ‘statement’ of some description. A visit home would also occasion the immortal phrase: “Look at the state of ya. You have a head on ya like a madman’s arse”. Maisie would then look at her watch and say I still had time to get to the barbers. She usually had timed it to perfection and usually had a point.

Many years later, my hairline was the initial and jaw dropping link to my birth father. Putting our photos side by side, our hair was an almost perfect match at the times each photo was taken. You could almost exchange our pictures. Further photos showed his earlier self and more and more similarities emerged, almost shadows of each other. When meeting one of his old friends, he shook my hand, looked at my hair and said “Jaysus, you’re the head of him”. I still find it remarkable. I don’t resemble most of my siblings on his side and only one brother has turned grey (but that’s an age thing mostly). My sister on my mother’s sides rocks her decision to let her hair turn grey and, if I’m honest, the colour thing has never been an issue for me.

Until last year, the length of my hair has always been a matter of tidyness and suits (when I had that sort of job). I’m also very conscious that I have hair I can worry about if I want. I will now state that the longer my hair grows, the less I care. I’m not in any hurry to the barbers , but will get a regular trim. I spent most of yesterday flicking my hair out of my face on a Zoom call so I can’t be doing that for much longer.

In fairness to the lovely Sandra in Sweeney Todd’s, she had been at me for a while to let my hair grow. Again, I said no. I would appear that it took a pandemic to prove me wrong and her and others right.