We’re all becoming mad-dog desperados. My mom went for an illegal haircut yesterday. The criminality in this family is reaching new highs. Or maybe its new lows. In any event it’s all gone very Peaky Blinders down here at the bottom of the planet.
My friend is a barber. Imagine Nina Hagen with dual sleeves and packing a .38 special under her Rammstein t-shirt… not the sort of person my mother would normally associate with. In fact, me and my wife gave my mom a little prep-talk/heads-up before the illegal hair cutting caucus so she would be… whats the word I’m looking for… aesthetically prepared.
Desperate times however call for desperate measures and finding someone who will risk the pogrom against the pompadour is hard to find. My moms regular hairdresser is, after telephonic consultation as to her willingness to break the rules, too afraid that the Gestapo will kick in her door and drag out into the street and string her up with piano wire should she attempt to earn any money. Although she also added that she was being particularly civic minded… or maybe it was embracing martyrdom, it difficult to tell the difference these days.
My friend, the barber, hasn’t had any formal work for almost two months now. And really has only been holding it together because someone she knows paid her to do a stock count in their pharmacy… that and a bit of side hustle from clandestine buzz-cuts.
I haven’t really been affected by lockdown. At absolute worst there have been days where I’ve been mildly inconvenienced. But really, as long as I have running water, electricity, fibre and coffee I am basically content.
Also, because I’m quite insular I sorta just assume everyone else is also fine… and maybe, at worst, a little bored. I mean academically I know that there are a lot of people out there that are NOT fine. But really, beyond meaningless platitudes I can’t really do anything for them… so it’s just easier not to think about their hardship. Out of sight… out of mind.
Having now been regaled this whole haircut operation, all undertaken with the covertness of the French resistance, I’ve been forced briefly out of la-la land… and, I must be honest, reality is awful.
I don’t recommend it. I mean if I had any solutions this would be typically where I’d espouse my brilliance, potentially in bullet form… but really I’ve got nothing. Never put me in charge. I’m useless.
Ps. My mom really liked her haircut. No mohawk or vicious undercuts. (much to my chagrin) In fact it all turned out surprisingly normal.