Phil Hogan worries about haircuts ...
There's something about going to the barber's that makes me slightly apprehensive. I don't mean that final obligatory scrape round the jugular with a cut-throat razor; or having to watch myself twitching in the mirror when they disppear off halfway through to answer the phone, leaving me with my hair pegged up and at the mercy of casual spectators passing the window. No. What makes my heart sink is having to help barbers with their inquiries about what line of work I'm in or where I'm going on holiday this year, or...
"Did you manage to catch the cricket at all, sir?" Snip, snip..snip, snip...
"Been a bit busy, actually..."
To be honest I'd rather have my cheeks tattooed than watch cricket but it's an unspoken breach of etiquette to introduce dissent to the barber's chair. It's funny how this ritualised chit-chat has persisted down the years.
What I want from my barber is expert advice. I want to know if I'd look a complete twerp if, say, I suddenly decided to have my hair shorter and pushed forward like Robbie Williams. Would it look a bit desperate? I'd like a professional opinion on mid-life hair loss.
"The thing is," I say, eventually, "If you take too much off the top, I'll wake up tomorrow looking like Douglas Hurd."
Snip, snip
"Oh right ... Douglas Hurd. The er...racing driver, yeah?"
So you give in. What can you say? Unless he's decided to surprise you by razoring in a swastika or a map of Iceland, there's no point complaining. Unlike wine, you can't send haircuts back.
