Well, here`s one.   As of today we are closer to the longest day of the year than the day on which I had my last haircut.   Can`t believe how cold the weather still is and although the evenings are much lighter now, the winter chills just won`t go away, which is why, for a change, I am looking forward to June and the longest day when the corn is as high as an elephant`s eye and I can sit in the garden and listen to the Test Match under the shade of the old oak tree.

As for haircuts, I notice that some people hereabouts seem either to have chopped some off themselves or they have had access to a lockdown defying barber.  As for me, the last time I enjoyed the delicate fingers of my stylist, Chris of Larkfield, ruffling beguilingly through my folically challenged head was towards the end of last November, so I`m looking forward to my appointment this time next week - it will be almost five months and counting.  I`ve warned her of the challenge that lies ahead.

Chris and I go back a long way, to the time when I had a `full head of hair,` and there was enough for her to use her improvisation and artistry to create a lasting impression but these days, due to the effects of Mr. Covid and his lockdowns, I have more hair than I have had for some time, which in a way is comforting.   However, the day when I join the family tendency towards complete baldness may still not be too far off, but I may still I turn up at Chris`s `Hair Studio` and ask if I can just have a nice stroke.

PART TWO...

Yesterday I posted about something that was worth waiting for and today I have another one.  After four months I finally managed to get my hair cut yesterday.  I`ve lost count of the number of years that my stylist, Chris of Larkfield, has been attending to my fading hair but after some lengthy negotiations I was booked in for an hour`s appointment yesterday afternoon.   I`ve never had a whole hour`s appointment before and I wondered what on earth might happen to me for that length of time.

I needn`t have worried. Chris`s magic fingers worked their way through as I laid back while she washed it (you`ll get my drift) and then proceeded to style my hair to an agreed specification.  It took a while with each hair being carefully coiffured into place until the final styling which set it all off as a shining example of the crimper`s art.

Only downside was how tricky it was to have our usual banter - she covered by a face screen thingy and me with my Jack Sparrow mask on.  So although we managed some muffled banter (she`s an Arsenal fan) it was all a bit indistinct and open to interpretation.   

But it was all worth the wait and it all ended happily ever after and I`m already booked in for another go in a month`s time.   That`s if I`ve fully recovered from the effects of the local anaesthetic.  (I have a couple of very good friends - they know who they are - who due to shortcomings in the follicle department have no need for a hairdresser.  They really don`t know what they`re missing.)

HAIR TODAY....

A report published by Fudge, the makers of `hair products` suggests that men have to wait until they are 32 before finally settling on a particular hair style having tried at least five different styles before `settling down.`   Women on the other hand try as many as seven styles before they finally arrive at one they like and stick to.

Well, they never included me in their `research,` for had they done so they would have encountered a wholly different approach to hair styling.  You see, I didn`t get off to a very good start, being as bald as a coot until I was three, then producing a shock of blonde locks that lasted until the trauma of starting school when I was five.   Hair-wise, my school days were spent between the rigid conformity and the economic necessity of short back and sides and the onset of adolescence at which point I experimented with assorted `styles` (I use the term loosely) which involved copious amounts of Brylcreem. 

In my mid and late teens, however, I found myself in the grip of the one and only local barber, one Sweeney Furminger by name, who in his smoke filled emporium would ignore any individual preferences and simply produce the same `style` for each and every one of his victim customers.   He had a captive audience - no local competition - and ran his regime with unfailing consistency, which at least meant that the hair `styles` sported by  all the local lads were identical, leaving the local girls to look for other features to admire or otherwise.  I was still a slave to Brylcreem, however, chiefly purchased as a desperate response to Sweeney`s insistent questioning as to whether I would like something for the weekend, Sir.....ah, such sweet innocence.

Things got no better when I was conscripted into Her Majesty`s National Service and on my first day at Catterick Camp in North Yorkshire I, along with the rest of Intake 60/02, were ceremoniously shorn of any pretences to `style` we might have had.   Not much change from Sweeney really, although the military experience was more reminiscent of sheep shearing than haircutting, whilst Brylcreem became something of a banned substance, presumably prejudicial to good order and military discipline.

Throughout a busy and demanding professional life, I only really ever managed to get a haircut when necessity demanded, rather than any planned approach to improving my image, but at least I was able to have my irregular visits to various barbers during working hours, having invoked the principle that, as my hair grew in working hours, it seemed only fair for it to be `seen to` in working hours too.

And it has only been in my retirement that I have discovered the joys and benefits of being `seen to` very regularly by my adopted stylist, Chris of Larkfield, who does what she can with my thinning, greying, reluctant wisps.   They`re not used to all the attention, of course, and at this stage of life any thoughts of changing styles are but delusions.  So I never really had a chance to try out the five styles reported by Fudge and it`s all too late now anyway.   Pity really, I might have been quite stylish given half a chance.

SOCIAL DIALOGUE ..

This photograph shows the imposing facade of Malcolm`s Hair Studio in nearby Larkfield.   It`s conveniently located between the AutoCraft Garage and Morrison`s supermarket.   And it`s where ace crimper, Chris of Larkfield, plies her trade as my personal stylist.   For years it has been a relaxing venue for letting Chris loose on what`s left of my folically challenged head.

But things are changing, thanks to our friends in the European Union who seem quite unable to resist interfering in all corners of our everyday lives.   They have just issued E-fact 34 - Risk Assessment for Hairdressers - Case Study Branch Codes for Skilled Trades, aka The Dresden Agreement, after the city where it was signed.   These new Directives have been drawn up by the twin forces of the Python-esque EU Coiffeure and UNI Europa Hair and Beauty, which represent employers and workers in that line of business across the EU.


Under the Directive, the crimpers of this world will be banned from wearing high heels, jewellery and watches, they will be required to wear `suitable clothes` and face a limit on the number of `clients` they can see to each day.   And they will be told to have regular `social dialogue to encourage mental well being in the workplace.`   Chris tells me she will also have to wear rubber gloves whilst she is my cutting hair, which sounds a tad dangerous to me.


If these d(r)aft proposals are agreed by the European Commission they will then be submitted to the European Council to become an EU-wide Directive, binding on all 27 states, including the People`s Republic of Larkfield.  Here in the UK, the Department for Work and Pensions confess to being confused by the odd wording of just some of the plans.  For example, the agreement concludes: "To contribute to a healthy and balanced mental environment, the employer shall ensure a careful preparation of work....and work organisation aiming at optimising resource management and preventing emotional collapse."   DWP Officials in Whitehall admit to being `not entirely clear what this means` but suspect it is likely to be used to restrict working times.


A couple of things occur to me about all this.   The first is to ask you to imagine a meeting all those years ago between the `founding fathers` of the EU - those such as Konrad Adenauer of Germany, Jean Monet of France, Alcide De Gasperi of Italy and the rest of that magnificent seven.  As they are thrashing out the meaty bits of the Treaty of Rome, it occurs to them that here is their opportunity to ensure that the hairdressers of Europe will one day be united by a common bond which means they can crimp away unshackled by high heels, jewellery or watches whilst joyfully donning their rubber gloves and engaging in meaningful social dialogue with their captive audience.   Truly, we have much to thank them for.


And finally, as the terror rages in Syria, the conflict in Afghanistan continues to claim young lives and the uncertainties of the Arab Spring remain unresolved, about all of which we have heard not a peep from Baroness Ashton, the £328,000 a year EU High Representative for  Foreign Affairs and Security Policy or her 7,000 strong army of EU bureaucrats.  Maybe that`s just as well;  for it says everything about the EU`s priorities that they are more concerned that Chris of Larkfield and I can have some `social dialogue` than how the real issues of the world might be tackled.


And you wonder why I remain profoundly skeptical about the EU and all its works........especially as I`ll miss the stilettos!

.......Snopper`s hair appointment gets cancelled, that`s what, our Fashion Editor reports.

It has been revealed this morning that the indisposition that prevented ace crimper Chris of Larkfield from seeing to Snopper`s follicle needs on Tuesday was.....food poisoning.

A period of intense diplomatic activity has persuaded Chris to `fit him in` for a revised appointment next Monday lunchtime, when a reciprocal exchange of recent medical experiences will doubtless take place. Should make for a fascinating interlude.

Following representations from the Press Complaints Commission, it seems that further fashion reports on this whole matter are unlikely.

STYLIST SICKNESS CRISIS HITS SNOPPER

Our Fashion Editor reports....

After a five-weeks wait, Snopper arrived on time on Tuesday for his regular appointment with ace crimper Chris of Larkfield. On arrival, he was told that Chris was indisposed and there was no indication as to how long she would be away. Quite understandably, no-one else was willing to see to Snopper`s needs and Chris`s own appointment book was full to overflowing until after Christmas, leaving Snopper with a serious dent to his style-guru status.

This has led to an unprecedented amount of panic on Snopper`s part, since he has a hectic social schedule leading up to the holiday period; well, a dinner last evening and a lunch next Tuesday, but he does like to present a distinguished image when out and about. Sadly, however, this is not possible at the moment as our illustration above left shows.

Frequent and increasingly frantic phone calls are being made to the Larkfield Hair Studio, where Chris plies her trade, in the hope that she might be restored to fighting fitness and that she will have lost none of the deftness of touch so vital to the preservation of Snopper`s follicle wellbeing.

For all of our sakes, Chris, please get well soon so that the fashion world can get back to normal in the knowledge that one of its most prestigious icons can show his face in public once more.

SOMETHING FOR THE WEEKEND, SIR?

Years ago, when men were men and `hair stylists` were barbers, I used to go and get my hair cut once every few weeks. The barber shop was half way down a quiet street and was run by a Mr. Furminger, who ran his one man business in the converted front room of his house.

Of course, he was known locally as `Sweeney` - perhaps a little unjustly, although he did have a somewhat limited range of `styles` to offer prospective clients. In truth, once you sat in his barber`s chair, you were never asked how you would like it done - you contented yourself with the knowledge that Sweeney would do it his way or not at all. The consequence of this was that the whole male population of the locality sported precisely the same hair style - at least it was consistent.

The other quirk of Sweeney`s emporium was that, of course, there were no such things as `appointments.` You just turned up, took your place in the queue and waited patiently until it was your turn for the inevitable `styling.`

Today - being the start of the weekend - has brought back memories (and I`m talking about 50 years ago) of the question Sweeney asked each and every one of his customers once he had concluded his folically repetitive routine, "Would you like something for the weekend, Sir?"

I must have missed the furtive transactions which must have taken place with some customers following Sweeney`s question, but I remember the day he first asked me. It was truly a rite of passage. My mind raced through the activities I may have had planned and, in a fit of panic brought on by the notion that, having been asked, perhaps I really should buy something, I plumped for a tub of Brylcreem.

Over the coming few months and years, before I was whisked away to do my National Service, I accumulated quite a large supply of Brylcreem. Despite slapping copious quantities of the stuff on my hair, I never seemed able to use it all up. It wasn`t until much later that the true value of Sweeney`s question dawned on me and I have forever been left wondering what on earth Sweeney must have thought I was doing with all that Brylcreem for all those youthful weekends.

It`s only now, of course, that my imagination can come up with any sort of suggestion.

IN PRAISE OF HAIRDRESSERS

Yesterday, I paid my regular five-weekly visit to my local stylist - Chris of Larkfield, who once sat alongside Nicky Clarke, who could do with a good short back and sides himself. As usual, my visit turned out to be the rare pleasure it has become over the years. As I sat there, draped in her shroud with bits of very grey hair plunging floorwards, it occurred to me just what a wonderful service the hairdressers of the world provide. To stand on their feet all day, they must be supremely fit and with all the snipping they do, they must have wrists of steel.

They have my undying admiration for not only do they transform one`s persona with deft touches of their scissors, but they also provide a stimulating conversation, which means it becomes as much a social occasion as a much needed makeover. Now, it can`t be easy to maintain the highest professional standards of snipping whilst at the same time avoiding being bored silly by the preumably predictable, repetitive and no doubt often anodyne subjects under discussion. Some months ago, Chris actually produced a board on which she had written the list of subjects up for discussion that day - holidays, football, the weather being pretty high on the agenda.

They do this day in and day out - and it must take either a very compassionate personality or an iron will to resist the temptation to turn the scissors into an instant lethal weapon and bring the whole ritual to an end. Not that such thoughts would enter Chris`s head, of course - she is much too nice for that. Isn`t she? Isn`t she? Please tell me she is.

On the folicle front, the ravages of time are catching up with me - I have developed an ozone-layer-type hole on top which seems to be getting larger, despite my attempts to reduce carbon emissions. I am what you might (if you are in any way sympathetic) describe as `distinguished.` In other words, grey and thin on top. I suppose the day will come when I may need Chris`s services no more, which I will miss and regret. For Chris, however, it might herald the demise of yet another discussion about holidays......football.......the weather.......................