THESE DAYS, I like to keep my hair fairly short – gone the days when I could wear it down to my shoulders; shortish hair looks reasonable even when it’s untidy.
Trouble is, I’ve had difficulty in locating a good barber.
I’ve tried several, but none of them have proved to be wholly satisfactory.
That is until now. The moment I stepped into his shop I knew I’d found my man.
In the waiting area, you are greeted by green leather chesterfields, worn perhaps, but wonderfully comfortable.
On the walls are framed photographs of the likes Humphrey Bogart, Louis Armstrong and Clark Gable, as well as an original poster of the film
“Nothing to do with hairdressing,” Terry tells me, “I just love the film!”
I agree with him, in my book
And then there’s Terry himself, a gentle man, well-travelled and deeply cultured and with an appetite for life that belies his sixty-five years.
“I’ve no intentions of retiring, I enjoy my work too much!” he says.
We talk about our interests in film, in jazz music, in travel; and it’s as if we’ve know each other for years!
By the time my hair’s done, we seem to be firm friends.
He escorts me to the door and there we shake hands.
“See you soon,” I tell him.
“I hope so,” he says.
And as I walk away, I’m struck by the fact that for the first time having my hair cut hasn’t been a chore, it’s been a pleasure.
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