Actually a little more than 100 baht; but there wasn’t a crap eighties band called Haircut 300. “But why pay so much for your haircut Spike?” I would hear you ask if I had special powers. Well……
When I arrived in Thailand, I had my obligatory interview with the company doctor. I was never sure why we employed a full-time doctor; maybe he existed to serve as a warning to others. He was morbidly obese, smoked heavily, was borderline alcoholic; and rumoured to indulge in dubious sexual practices. He also suffered from various ailments, one of which was a hernia. I only found this out when I went to see him with a lump in my lower stomach which he examined and said “that’s a hernia, you must have it operated on immediately”. He then semi-undressed and showed me his own, much more impressive, protrusion; for reasons he did not explain. Maybe he just liked to show his patients that he had had personal experience of their ailments.
“Gosh doctor, that’s a big one!” I exclaimed, “how long have you had that?”
“Years, can’t be bothered to get it fixed.”
So much for setting an example.
The doctor was always the star turn at our monthly health and safety management meetings, where proceedings were always enlivened by the “medical report” which he delivered with a total disregard for doctor/patient confidentiality. If Khun Somchai had caught crabs, then you could be sure we would be told all about it; very often with illustrative photos. Everyone in the management team knew that you never went to see the company doctor with anything you wanted to keep private.
Anyway, back to my arrival in Thailand and my briefing from the good doctor, which was laden with advise I mainly ignored.
“Don’t live above the fifth floor, fire engines in Bangkok can’t squirt water any higher.” I immediately took a condo on the 22nd floor.
“Don’t buy any milk but brand X, all the rest are full of pus and other unpleasantness.” Whatever was cheapest.
“Stay away from the local women; many are diseased”. Yeah, like that was going to happen.
“Don’t go for cheap haircuts, the trimming machines in low-class barbers can give you AIDS”. Obviously bollocks, but for some reason I heeded his advice.
As a result I made a salon in The Emporium my barber of choice. It was a bad choice, because not only was it fiendishly expensive, but they also tried to justify their “you could buy a small car for this” fee by doing all sorts of unnecessary things beyond the basic cutting of the hair. There would be the expensive washing of the hair before the cut, which I had already washed before venturing out in the morning. Then there would be the head massage which was uncomfortable and potentially embarrassing. There is nothing erotic about having your and neck massaged, but the girls were cute and and bits of them were pretty much in your face and oh my god I hope that’s not an erection - THINK OF CARPENTRY, THINK OF CARPENTRY. Finally, there was yet another wash after the act of cutting. These extras would extend the visit to well over an hour, wasting time which could otherwise have been spent purchasing dodgy milk and chasing even dodgier women.
When she who must be obeyed came into my life, she took over clipping duties. This was a brave move because, although she had scissors, she had no experience; and sessions were interspersed with her exclaiming “oops”, followed by a nervous giggle. Always looked OK to me though, not that I looked very closely; I find that mirrors are best avoided at my age.
More recently I have found a place in Central that does a reasonable job, and will cut my hair without feeling the need to wash it or massage my head for no purpose. This means I can be in and out in the shortest possible time, which is my number one objective for a haircut. Second objective is not to leave looking like I have just been processed for admission to prison.
It’s been some time since my last trim and I have had several nags from the wife that I should go and do something about it. Nag level reached red alert status this morning and I was frog-marched to the salon and delivered to my “stylist” who pretended to remember me; but then produced a scrap book of men with hair and asked me to choose one. He pointed to a shot of Daniel Radcliffe; presumably because I apparently look like Harry Potter’s grandfather with my distinctive glasses. Or so a little girl in the condo lift told me one day.
“You look like Harry Potter’s grandfather!” she exclaimed perkily.
“Harry Potter’s slightly older brother if you please” I replied and gave her my stare of doom.
She started to sniffle. Her mother glared at me. I glared back. I fucking hate kids; especially kids who point out how old I am.
Anyway, I wearily agreed to the Harry Potter look, knowing full well that what I would get is a geriatric with short hair look. She who must be obeyed was charitable and said it made me look younger. I have no idea, I haven’t looked in a mirror yet.
Comments 🔗
2014-05-06| jon sutton saysA retired Chief Inspector from the West Midlands Serious Crime Squad once told me that men of a certain age either go grey, bald or bonkers. Next time you see an older guy with a full head of (apparently) original coloured hair you may realise that he was right! Wigs and dye are not used by the sane
2014-05-08| Spike saysI am both grey and bonkers. Police? Just can’t trust what they say.