Sharpness to cool

There are things to establish when you move somewhere new. You know, find a doctor, identify a well-supplied grocer, work out your way around the local bureaucracy. And, of course, get yourself a good hairdresser.

The hairdresser we found when we moved to Spain was in the city of Valencia itself, which was a bit of a bore, since we live outside it, and had to travel in to get our hair cut. But he was great and so we stuck with him. Apart from his skill in hairdressing, I liked the fact that he was German – not the most likely nationality for a hairdresser in Spain – which gave me a rare opportunity to practise my German.

I kept speaking German to him until I had the slightly galling realisation that he spoke near-native English. Which made his English just a tad better than my German. That’s ‘tad’ as in the difference between the professional actors of the Royal Shakespeare Company and those of a primary school nativity play.

He eventually announced to us that he was planning to leave the salon where he worked and go self-employed. That was perfect for us. Since that time, he’s been coming to our place to cut our hair, which rather reduces the time it takes us to get to him. Instead of a half-hour metro journey with walks to and from the station at each end, we now just have to get from our living room to the back patio. And ours isn’t a particularly big house.

A few months ago, my then four-year-old granddaughter Matilda announced that she wanted me to shave. She was quickly and enthusiastically seconded by Danielle. Now, for a great many years – a couple of decades or more – I used to alternate image, between bearded and clean-shaven, every few years or so. But recently, I’ve stuck with a beard for the best part of ten years. 

A change, they say, is as good as a rest, so I decided to accede to this request from such key figures as my wife and granddaughter. I shaved. That was certainly a change though I’m not sure how much of a rest it was – I feel just as tired as ever. 

Then came the first visit of our hairdresser. He examined me with a critical eye.

‘Hmm,’ he said, ‘you looked more modern with the beard.’

‘Danielle,’ I told him, ‘thinks I look younger without one.’

He shrugged.

‘Which is better?’ I asked him, ‘more modern or younger?’

‘Well...’ he said, shrugged again and left the word dangling.

‘We’ll see how you look,’ he went on, ‘with shorter hair and no beard.’

He worked his usual magic with clippers and scissors.

‘Ah,’ he said at the end, ‘you certainly look sharper.’

I was briefly distracted by the thought that it was appropriate that tools as sharp as a hairdresser’s should pass on their sharpness, but that wasn’t really the main issue, was it?

‘Sharper?’ I replied, ‘that sounds good. It feels like a step on the way to “cool”.’

‘Well…’ he said again, with a third shrug.

Then he brightened.

‘Maybe you could say that we’re working towards it.’

On the way to cool? Sounds like a surprising boon, unexpected in my 72nd year. One I’d be only too happy to take.

If only I believed that so much could be achieved with just clippers and scissors.  

Bearded or clean-shaven