It's been a while since I last had my hair cut and I was starting to look a little tramp like, so I decided to go and get a trim. Rory had his annual butchering last week at the local Kwick Kuts but after seeing the outcome I thought I'd give them a miss. I'm not overly picky when it comes to getting my hair cut but I try to stick to a few basic rules. Firstly it has to be cheap, which is why my mother normally gets the job back home. Secondly they have to be a men's barbers as I'm always worried I might end up with bleached blonde highlights or a loose perm if I go anywhere remotely feminine or fancy. And finally, I like to try and find somewhere with a classic red and white barbers pole outside. The last one is by no means essential but I always feel safer in the hands of someone that adheres to tradition in the hope that they wont attempt anything radical on me.
In the St Kilda area where I live there are literally 100's of hairdressers so I could afford to be picky. After only 5 minutes of hunting I found a place that seemed to tick all the boxes, even the barbers pole, so I went in and sat down. The barber was called Dr Follicles which impressed me immediately, I felt safe in the knowledge that the man standing behind me with a pair of sharp scissors was qualified with a PhD. Anyhow, the doctor made me a cup of green tea and set to work on the hair. I was a little concerned that he hadn't asked me what I wanted doing, but he seemed like he knew what he was up to so I just let him get on with it.
After 25 minutes of faffing around with various stainless steel utensils he was all finished. The result was your run of the mill, short back and sides which my mum can normally achieve with a pair of clippers in approximately 2 minutes. The only thing bloody Follicles had in common with a doctor was the money he charged for the consultation.
In the St Kilda area where I live there are literally 100's of hairdressers so I could afford to be picky. After only 5 minutes of hunting I found a place that seemed to tick all the boxes, even the barbers pole, so I went in and sat down. The barber was called Dr Follicles which impressed me immediately, I felt safe in the knowledge that the man standing behind me with a pair of sharp scissors was qualified with a PhD. Anyhow, the doctor made me a cup of green tea and set to work on the hair. I was a little concerned that he hadn't asked me what I wanted doing, but he seemed like he knew what he was up to so I just let him get on with it.
After 25 minutes of faffing around with various stainless steel utensils he was all finished. The result was your run of the mill, short back and sides which my mum can normally achieve with a pair of clippers in approximately 2 minutes. The only thing bloody Follicles had in common with a doctor was the money he charged for the consultation.
