The Barber of Winchmore Hill - part 1

The Barber of Winchmore Hill

It was convenience that had drawn him to the little barber shop. He could walk there.

Donald was in London for the first time. He could boast that he'd been to every state there was in the United States, but none of them had given him the thrill that came to him each time he realised that he was truly in London, England. That thrill ran through him whenever he heard someone speaking English with an accent, or a red, double-decker bus stopped near him or he took in the neat, terraced brick houses, which were actually found all over Britain. Kids going to or coming home from school in their uniforms, made him smile. Ties were tight in the morning and askew in the afternoon.

In his adopted area, the aspect that he appreciated the most were the quaint shops that surrounded what would have once been the village green before 'Greater London' had spilled over to incorporate it into its governmental grasp. For Donald, Winchmore Hill only became London when he needed to write down its postcode; for it was North London, very North London. It was also a very desirable part of that sprawling metropolis, because it was easily within an hour of the capital’s centre via train, bus or underground.

Retired from a banal insurance job, he had taken up genealogy purely by chance. He'd inherited a paltry sum of money from a cousin he hadn't even known had existed, but a spark of interest had been ignited when he had wondered who this person was?
Now, here he was in England two years later after tracing family back to a many times removed, British cousin, who was also interested in genealogy. Through the wonder of the internet, contact had been made and had flourished.

The English cousin, William, was a widower of a similar age, who had jumped on the chance to share his passion with someone who was actually in the family- an American cousin, no less! They got along quite well, Donald had decided after the first week. They didn't have a lot in common apart from genealogy, food and their like for Guinness, but it was obviously enough. 'Brits' seemed to enjoy a quiet meal or drink without unnecessary conversation to accompany it, which suited Donald, who had never been known for his eloquence.

The return ticket to the 'American colonies' (in William's words), was in six months' time. He had actively encouraged Donald to stay that long, perhaps from kindness or perhaps from loneliness. Knowing now just how expensive and non-descript hotels in London were, Donald was particularly grateful for William's hospitality and the immersion into the 'English way of life' that it gave.

It was surprisingly satisfying to Donald that people had begun to know and acknowledge him as he went about the neighbourhood. The Indian, operating the corner shop called 'Hunter's', was certainly not surnamed Hunter. Donald had managed to ascertain that his name was Patel, the Indian equivalent to Smith, it seemed. But it hardly mattered what name adorned the shop because the greeting he received each time he entered to buy a newspaper or a lottery ticket was of the warmest and commercially the best. After a week, he was addressed as Mr. Conroy and yet he hadn't remembered giving anyone his name. Yes, Winchmore Hill was indeed a village...

At the end of his first month with William, the time had come for Donald to think about getting a haircut. Although William followed the British tendency to have a good amount of hair down to his collar, Donald had always favoured ‘short back and sides.’ It was so much easier to manage. William had suggested a couple of men’s hairdressers in the area but Donald had noticed the one across from the train station. How could he not notice it? It stood out in its uniqueness from all the others.

To begin with, it was the cross between a potting shed and Santa’s hut. A single room with a large window, it was crowned by a rather pointed roof covered in moss. Walking past it and looking in, one could see that it had one barber’s chair, a large mirror and a sink in the corner. The electric light, running strategically between the chair and the sink, was fluorescent and adequate. Sometimes the barber sat patiently, arms crossed, in a foldable chair that was a garish pink and quite out of place, except it added that little touch of bizarrerie that had drawn Donald’s attention to the shop. A large sign standing outside, next to the door, gave the prices for men, boys and senior citizens. They appeared reasonable.

Donald could have his hair cut in any number of hairdressing chains to be found across England. They all projected a polished image of professionalism. Large black and white photos of good-looking men, sporting various hairstyles, were standard publicity enticements. With those, he might even be in America gazing into a city shop; the shops were all clones of each other…but not the Winchmore Hill shop.

It was a Wednesday morning when Donald passed in front of the shop and saw the barber alone in his room. Perhaps he was waiting for his next client to arrive? On the spur of the moment, Donald clicked open the door, deciding to ask the man for an appointment. Until then, it had been the place that had interested Donald but now that he was face to face with the barber himself, he began to examine him.

He was of average height and slender. Donald had, from a distance, thought he must be some young guy starting out, which would explain the less than sophisticated premises, but now, at hand-shaking distance, he could see that the man must be near to forty. A pleasant smile took a couple of years off the man as he greeted Donald with a nod of the head.

“Hi! I was just wondering what I had to do to get a haircut?” Donald asked.

“Hello, sir. Do you want it now?” the man relied.

Donald detected a slight accent, which wasn’t the English one he was becoming accustomed to. He was taken a bit off guard by the question, not expecting to be taken in on the spot, so he hesitated a couple of seconds before saying, ‘Why not!’ and began to take off his jacket.

“Please, take a seat,” the barber requested as he hung Donald’s jacket on a peg. Donald almost hesitated between the garish pink fold-away and the padded swivel chair wondering what the man’s reaction would be if he took the fold-away one. He smiled to himself with the barber’s use of ‘a seat’ rather than ‘the seat’, as though he had a choice. Once seated facing the mirror, he saw in its reflection the practiced flourish with which the barber swirled a hairdressing cape about his shoulders. The cape settled flawlessly around Donald and the chair, leaving only his neck and head exposed.

“So, sir, what kinda cut do you want?”

The accent was more pronounced and it struck a chord within Donald’s repertoire telling him it was, quite ironically, Italian. Why did he associate barbering with Italians? Perry Como, perhaps?

“Aren’t you going to wash it first?” Donald questioned a little hesitantly. Perhaps here in England they cut first.

“No, I donna wash hair, I just cut. Do you wanna cut?”

Now that he was virtually a captive audience, held in place by the cape, Donald reckoned he’d have the cut anyway.

“Nothing fancy,” Donald offered. “Just a short back and sides, please.”

“So, where do you com’a from?” asked the barber. “I hear an accent.”

Donald guffawed. And then to cover up any misinterpretation he might have given the barber, he explained away his gut wrenching laugh.

“I’m not the one with the accent. To me, you guys are the one with the accent. You also drive on the wrong side of the road!”

He got a grin from the barber.

“It’sa the same for me. I come from Italy and I hear the accent too.”

“Oh, yeah? Where in Italy? Anywhere I’d know?

“Yeah, well, I don’t thinka so. Near Milano.”

The scissors had already removed the bulk of Donald’s hair. The barber reached over and picked up the shaver and switched it on.
Donald was now a little nervous as he saw the barber gesticulating as he spoke. Perhaps he was pointing at an invisible map of Italy showing how near to Milan he had lived. Perhaps he was only flexing muscles in his arm before he attacked the job. Donald suddenly wanted to know the name of the man who looked confident enough that he might be in the mafia. The cold metal shaving away the hair on his neck gave him shivers…

He raised his voice over the sound of the electric razor.

“I’m Don. What name do you go by?” Donald asked. He hoped that the name ‘Don’ might inspire some fear into a mafia man, make him more careful as he trimmed away his hair. Wasn’t that the title they gave to ‘The Boss’ in Italy?

“I’ma known as Lou, here in Winchmore Hill.”

Which left the question hanging, ‘what was he known as elsewhere?’ Donald’s imagination soared as he imagined all the man’s aliases on wanted posters. He was quickly brought back to ‘terra firma’ when Lou explained that it was short for Luigi. No! Donald refused to let his imagination be taken down the Mario Bros. path of video games.

The time it had taken to shake off his various reveries and refocus on the mirror and himself, Donald was scalped. Lou had enthusiastically given him a hair style bordering on that of skinheads. It was short, very short, everywhere. There did remain enough on top to show he wasn’t bald, thank goodness!

Lou whipped off the cape with the expertise of many years of practice, while Donald still continued to stare in the mirror. He was now looking at someone he barely recognised, because the face looking back at him appeared ten years younger!

Now that his hands were free again, he wiped a hand across his eyes to be sure he was seeing what he was seeing. The man was worth his weight in gold! A possible catastrophe had rendered a miracle. Donald laughed from the pure pleasure of seeing himself young again. However, the real test would be waiting for him at the local pub, The Kings Head. That would be where the cruel truth would smack him in the face, as everyone knows that as soon as you cross its threshold, there are no holds barred!