The barbers

Went to the barber today. He’s an old codger in Ranelagh. His shop is tiny with two chairs and a waiting bench with car magazines. The bottom half of the walls are dark paneled wood. The top half are rough painted plaster. There’s pictures, posters, postcards and stuff adorning them. I never have to wait long and the cut is €9.

Today, he’s cutting a customers hair as I enter under the candy sign. The subject is Ronaldo going to Real Madrid. The barber says you can buy God for €94 million never mind a footballer. We all laugh. I marvel at concept cars in the magazine as the conversation turns as it always does, to women, well birds. He tells of his wife who kept him on his toes all these years and still wants all his money. He warned us not to rush into marriage because there’s loads of gorgeous birds out there and to enjoy ourselves. Smirks are mutually reflected.

I sit down for my turn and just ask him to tidy it up a bit, not too short. The roar of a departing bus enters as the last guy leaves. “jaysus, those buses are awful loud, must be that vegetable gas… global warming…. birds in short skirts……. recession…….1950s…….. arse out of his trousers….. 1980s……. dose of reality……. will I bring up the locks for you, they’ve slipped down a bit there”.

15 minutes later, all done, brushed down, money changes hands. 25 minutes later, I leave.

Tomorrow I go to the other barber to get it fixed, as usual.