Off The Cuff

Evening Chronicle (Newcastle, England), Jan 24, 2008

Byline: ADAM JUPP

I HAVE been quite prepared to embrace most of the trappings of becoming a modern man. I mean, I switched my aftershave to balm from spray and, at home, I'm the brains in the kitchen. But, one thing I've always shied away from is pricey haircuts. I begrudge paying more than pounds 6, let alone the fact I've never really desired a style resembling that of a third division footballer.

But sometimes needs must and, when a pal decided to get married in that awkward week between Christmas and New Year, I had no choice. After driving round the coastal area and beyond for two hours, I finally found an "open" sign hanging on a door.

But hanging above it was a word that struck fear into me - SALON. Salon? I'm used to a 60-plus Italian man dropping cigar ash down my neck as he regales stories of former conquests.

I wasn't entirely sure how one even conducted oneself in a 'salon'. Can you just turn up out of the blue, I asked myself. So intimidated was I, I actually parked outside, read the phone number off the sign and called it on my mobile to see if I could get an appointment. "We've got one in 20 minutes," the clerk told me, adding "but I don't think you'll be able to make that one." "Oh I think I'll manage," I replied, as I got out the car and stood by the door for 10 minutes so as not to give the game away. I entered and gave my name.

"Ah, we've been expecting you, come this way, my 'stylist' said and walked me to my chair. I took a deep breath and closed my eyes, starting to relax slightly, when I was suddenly startled by running water crashing against my head. "Is that temperature OK," she asked, to which I politely replied "WHAT IN GOD'S NAME ARE YOU DOING?" "Washing your hair," she said, at which point I politely reminded her I had already washed it an hour ago.

The cut actually went OK, although she did nothing different to what I normally have done. Except, that is, make me a coffee and it must have been brewed with the finest beans from Columbia because I can find no other explanation for the pounds 25 price tag that was plucked out of the air when I got to the till (roughly 19 minutes after I had walked in). Matters only got worse because mid-cut, I had let my guard down and agreed to sample some of the wax my stylist was using. Used to my 50p pot of gel from the chemist's, I didn't see a problem with broadening my horizons, but when the price shot up to pounds 36,1 needed to sit down again. So, am I a pricey hair cut convert? I'll let you know in four to six weeks.