Monday, 26 February 2018

#456 Jazz's Barbers

I'd been going to Jazz's ever since I first moved to East Dulwich. Between the polished chrome base of each chair and the numerous ceiling spotlights, stood a well-pressed, immaculately groomed gent, adept at shearing locks with due care and in due time.

There were other places a man could go if he saw fit to splurge on the top of his head. They were called hairdressers. If I ever longed to sacrifice an hour of my life to come out smelling of lavender, with magazine-informed knowledge of ten ways to knit my own handbag, I'd go try one.

Then there were the ultra male shops. The kind that went way over the top and thrust a Budweiser into your hand while you were in the chair, which always seemed Bizarre. Did I want to drink a beer with myself in the mirror? No, not really.

Give me ten minutes and a grade three. I never cared for conversation anyway. A good barber can tell that in two questions. A bad one will leave you delayed, man-handled and looking like a fourteen year old mowed your head for pocket money.

I'd sometimes see Jazz's guys talking to the other shop workers on Lordship. That sense of community, that buzz, was part of what brought me back to Dulwich last year. Jazz's was at home on the High Street so I felt at home there too.

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