Roll Up Roll Up
I have a love hate relationship with rolling tobacco. That is sometimes I love it and sometimes I hate it. Geddit?
It usually works out that I hate it about the time when my pockets are bulging from a nice pay cheque and I have money to squander (as soon as possible) on fine luxuries such as the precious Marlborough Lights, Finger Of Fudge’s or food from Sainsbury’s. At these rare and distant times I develop a snobby contempt for my ‘pikey smoking’ brothers, similar to which I can only imagine a Sloane ranger would feel whilst trotting down Streatham High Street.
Unfortunately work has been a bit slack of late, so my love for the rolled goodness has resurfaced.
That was until I had an awful flashback (probably not quite like the ones Dennis Hopper has…) to George The Demon Barber.
When I was 12 or so I had finally had enough of the ridicule and shame of yet another of my mummy’s attempts at hairdressing. I was on the brink of man hood and a man can’t have his mother cutting his hair. It was time to venture into the world of professional hair dressing. Of a sort…
It was a Saturday and my Mother escorted me to one of the two ‘gents’ barbers (is there such a thing as a woman’s barber?) in the local small town, Georges. Being in a northern town it was out of the question to go to a ‘hairdressers’. It was bad enough having my mum cut my hair, being accused of being a pouf would be suicide. What with another 4 years of school left.
Georges was old school. A little shop no bigger than a front room. Looking back now, it could well have been his front room. In we strode, slightly slowed down by the wall of cigarette smoke that escaped (probably for a breath of fresh air) as we opened the door.
The place was packed. Gents squeezed together on an array of cheap seating lining the walls of the shop. George stopped mid snip and turned to my Mum. “Gents only Saturday love, boys on week. But seen as you stranger, come sit sit”
George was Greek. Despite living in the UK for more than 20 years, he had yet to fully grasp the English language. He was a small wirery man dressed in slacks and an open neck shirt, probably the same pair he was wearing when he stepped off the boat to meet his Tracy who he met in Kathos ’72. His hair was the traditional curly mullet, albeit a little graying and nicotined stained.
I was starting to realize this was a mistake, but like the condemned lamb, we (or me) was ready for the slaughter. All that was left now was the hour wait with the rest of the gents.
As I acclimatized to the situation and began the patient silent wait, another new experience raised its head. The Daily Sport newspaper. Loads of them laid out on the coffee table in front of us. In fact that was pretty much the only paper George stocked. If David Dickinson had sashayed in, not only would he have been able to say hello to his long lost brother, but he would have been able to give a valuation as I’m sure some of them were collectors items going back most likely to ’72.
At this time I had hardly been exposed to The Sun and didn’t dare to pick up one of the porn mags masquerading as a daily newspaper. However after an hour of watching George in action on yet another poor sod, both me and my mum were merrily working our way through his back catalogue of Sports.
It was certainly an eye opener and the prospect of sampling the daily Sport every month was starting to grow on me. In more ways than one…
Just as I was engrossed with Dawn’s tales of hubby and builder sex roasting shame, what ever that was? George called me to the hot seat. Which literally was hot, as it had been warming the back side of every man in need of a short back and sides in a 20 mile radius since 9am that morning.
“Ok, so what we do?”
Crikey, I hadn’t expected this. I had never been asked how I would like my hair cutting. It just normally happened. Then I would be laughed at till it grew.
Whose hair would I most like to have? Images of all the great men passed through my mind. Selleck? Guttenburg? J fox? Magiver?...
With the eyes and ears of 15 men boring into the back of my head (through the over grown locks) I bottled it and asked for a trim. The question turned out to be futile anyway. George, like many northern barbers only knew how to do two types of hair cut. I was getting the Type 2. Just a trim.
And so it began. My first real hair cut. I had barely had time to mull over why George had two Barbers chairs, possibly Dickinson did pop in from time to time to help out during the busy times? Before it started. The barrage. I had been warned about the barrage from my Father and older brother. Both who were men and like all the other men needed their hair cutting from time to time.
The barrage was a series of questions disguised as a conversation. Like a policeman pumping an informant for information or more fittingly a Gestapo interrogation, obviously before the thumb screws came out…
What was unusual about George was his memory. His shop was always busy from dawn till dusk, 6 days a week 364 days a year. “ I no work Christmas. Family time. It’s nice”. It doesn’t take Stephen Hawking to work out that that’s a lot of men a year. Probably not as many as Freddy Mercury, but close.
George could remember every detail of every conversation of every man that he had ever interrogated.
As I was to learn in the coming years of being trapped into this monthly ordeal.
This super memory was unnerving. Not only was it unnerving he would also on occasion regal detailed stories and information of other customers lives. As quite a private young man, the thought of him discussing my life with some random bin man who had popped in for a trim was to be honest mortifying.
Bringing it back to the roll ups. George used to smoke like a chimney. A hair cutting chimney. I soon realized what the spare barbers chair was for. Resting his over flowing ash tray.
On occasion, when the spare chair was full of Daily Sports or extra stock of Bryl Cream. The ash tray had been known, to be rested on the customers lap with out so much as a “ do you mind balancing my ashtray on your lap?”
To be honest this only happened a handful of times, but as most men know a handful is more than enough.
The roll ups were always ‘Golden Vag’ with out filters. George wasn’t a pouf after all.
This is what the flash back reminded me off. George Stopping mid interrogation to breath second hand smoke over my hair. The smell of the chemical free rolling tobacco bringing back one of the most disturbing thing to happen to a young lad.
George for some reason never cut the nail of his little finger. I remember seeing it many a time flashing before my eyes as his scissors skimmed my fringe. Nicotined stained, long and ugly.
On one fateful monthly session George was explaining that if the hair above my ear was trimmed back from covering it, my hair wouldn’t curl into my ear hole. To demonstrate the point, with the precision of Eric Bisto on tournament day, he stuck his little finger with the 2 inch nail into my ear. I’m sure this lasted a fraction of a second, but sitting in the hot seat staring back at my own frozen reflection witnessing the finger/nail in my ear; it could have been an eternity.
What the fuck? What was that? What just happened? He just carried on as if nothing had happened. Maybe it didn’t? Maybe I imagined it? I knew one thing for certain. I was going to grow my hair. I was going to grow my hair really really fucking long.
It usually works out that I hate it about the time when my pockets are bulging from a nice pay cheque and I have money to squander (as soon as possible) on fine luxuries such as the precious Marlborough Lights, Finger Of Fudge’s or food from Sainsbury’s. At these rare and distant times I develop a snobby contempt for my ‘pikey smoking’ brothers, similar to which I can only imagine a Sloane ranger would feel whilst trotting down Streatham High Street.
Unfortunately work has been a bit slack of late, so my love for the rolled goodness has resurfaced.
That was until I had an awful flashback (probably not quite like the ones Dennis Hopper has…) to George The Demon Barber.
When I was 12 or so I had finally had enough of the ridicule and shame of yet another of my mummy’s attempts at hairdressing. I was on the brink of man hood and a man can’t have his mother cutting his hair. It was time to venture into the world of professional hair dressing. Of a sort…
It was a Saturday and my Mother escorted me to one of the two ‘gents’ barbers (is there such a thing as a woman’s barber?) in the local small town, Georges. Being in a northern town it was out of the question to go to a ‘hairdressers’. It was bad enough having my mum cut my hair, being accused of being a pouf would be suicide. What with another 4 years of school left.
Georges was old school. A little shop no bigger than a front room. Looking back now, it could well have been his front room. In we strode, slightly slowed down by the wall of cigarette smoke that escaped (probably for a breath of fresh air) as we opened the door.
The place was packed. Gents squeezed together on an array of cheap seating lining the walls of the shop. George stopped mid snip and turned to my Mum. “Gents only Saturday love, boys on week. But seen as you stranger, come sit sit”
George was Greek. Despite living in the UK for more than 20 years, he had yet to fully grasp the English language. He was a small wirery man dressed in slacks and an open neck shirt, probably the same pair he was wearing when he stepped off the boat to meet his Tracy who he met in Kathos ’72. His hair was the traditional curly mullet, albeit a little graying and nicotined stained.
I was starting to realize this was a mistake, but like the condemned lamb, we (or me) was ready for the slaughter. All that was left now was the hour wait with the rest of the gents.
As I acclimatized to the situation and began the patient silent wait, another new experience raised its head. The Daily Sport newspaper. Loads of them laid out on the coffee table in front of us. In fact that was pretty much the only paper George stocked. If David Dickinson had sashayed in, not only would he have been able to say hello to his long lost brother, but he would have been able to give a valuation as I’m sure some of them were collectors items going back most likely to ’72.
At this time I had hardly been exposed to The Sun and didn’t dare to pick up one of the porn mags masquerading as a daily newspaper. However after an hour of watching George in action on yet another poor sod, both me and my mum were merrily working our way through his back catalogue of Sports.
It was certainly an eye opener and the prospect of sampling the daily Sport every month was starting to grow on me. In more ways than one…
Just as I was engrossed with Dawn’s tales of hubby and builder sex roasting shame, what ever that was? George called me to the hot seat. Which literally was hot, as it had been warming the back side of every man in need of a short back and sides in a 20 mile radius since 9am that morning.
“Ok, so what we do?”
Crikey, I hadn’t expected this. I had never been asked how I would like my hair cutting. It just normally happened. Then I would be laughed at till it grew.
Whose hair would I most like to have? Images of all the great men passed through my mind. Selleck? Guttenburg? J fox? Magiver?...
With the eyes and ears of 15 men boring into the back of my head (through the over grown locks) I bottled it and asked for a trim. The question turned out to be futile anyway. George, like many northern barbers only knew how to do two types of hair cut. I was getting the Type 2. Just a trim.
And so it began. My first real hair cut. I had barely had time to mull over why George had two Barbers chairs, possibly Dickinson did pop in from time to time to help out during the busy times? Before it started. The barrage. I had been warned about the barrage from my Father and older brother. Both who were men and like all the other men needed their hair cutting from time to time.
The barrage was a series of questions disguised as a conversation. Like a policeman pumping an informant for information or more fittingly a Gestapo interrogation, obviously before the thumb screws came out…
What was unusual about George was his memory. His shop was always busy from dawn till dusk, 6 days a week 364 days a year. “ I no work Christmas. Family time. It’s nice”. It doesn’t take Stephen Hawking to work out that that’s a lot of men a year. Probably not as many as Freddy Mercury, but close.
George could remember every detail of every conversation of every man that he had ever interrogated.
As I was to learn in the coming years of being trapped into this monthly ordeal.
This super memory was unnerving. Not only was it unnerving he would also on occasion regal detailed stories and information of other customers lives. As quite a private young man, the thought of him discussing my life with some random bin man who had popped in for a trim was to be honest mortifying.
Bringing it back to the roll ups. George used to smoke like a chimney. A hair cutting chimney. I soon realized what the spare barbers chair was for. Resting his over flowing ash tray.
On occasion, when the spare chair was full of Daily Sports or extra stock of Bryl Cream. The ash tray had been known, to be rested on the customers lap with out so much as a “ do you mind balancing my ashtray on your lap?”
To be honest this only happened a handful of times, but as most men know a handful is more than enough.
The roll ups were always ‘Golden Vag’ with out filters. George wasn’t a pouf after all.
This is what the flash back reminded me off. George Stopping mid interrogation to breath second hand smoke over my hair. The smell of the chemical free rolling tobacco bringing back one of the most disturbing thing to happen to a young lad.
George for some reason never cut the nail of his little finger. I remember seeing it many a time flashing before my eyes as his scissors skimmed my fringe. Nicotined stained, long and ugly.
On one fateful monthly session George was explaining that if the hair above my ear was trimmed back from covering it, my hair wouldn’t curl into my ear hole. To demonstrate the point, with the precision of Eric Bisto on tournament day, he stuck his little finger with the 2 inch nail into my ear. I’m sure this lasted a fraction of a second, but sitting in the hot seat staring back at my own frozen reflection witnessing the finger/nail in my ear; it could have been an eternity.
What the fuck? What was that? What just happened? He just carried on as if nothing had happened. Maybe it didn’t? Maybe I imagined it? I knew one thing for certain. I was going to grow my hair. I was going to grow my hair really really fucking long.
posted by neildeal1 at 9:56 AM
2 Comments:
In every tom's life, at some dated, our inner foment goes out. It is then burst into passion at near an contend with with another benign being. We should all be indebted for those people who rekindle the inner inclination
A comfortable old time eon is the favour of a well-spent youth. Rather than of its bringing glum and low prospects of decay, it would sing us hopes of eternal lad in a bettor world.
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