29. The Barbershop

aka Old Fashioned Barbers

The conservationists are continually on about preserving England's heritage and blow their tops whenever anybody threatens to chop down a tree or pull down a tumbledown old building.

No matter whether the tree is rotten and liable to be blown over with the next gust of wind, or the house will collapse if the tenant slams the bog door a bit too hard, somebody will plead that Bonny Prince Charlie hid in it's branches or Liz the One once kipped in the front bedroom.

Generally speaking, they do a good job for if the developers had their way we'd all be living in concrete jungles like the Chalkhill Estate in Wembley, and Mothercare would be flogging cement mixers to young parents instead of prams.

So I would like to bring to the notice of the people who are so concerned about retaining parts of Merrie Old England's heritage, of a fast disappearing trade, and it's environment, that is as dear as the British pub to the hearts of all true Britishers, no matter what part of the globe they happen to hail

from originally. 

I'm talking about the good old fashioned short back and sides barber and his barber shop, which should be in the back room behind a confectioner and tobacconist, if it is the genuine article.

They are few and far between and have been swamped by the malignant growth of Unisex salons and His 'n Hers parlours, which grew from long hair, the burning of the bra, and equal rights.

All democratic men are agreed that women's place is not solely in the home, but wherever it is, it certainly ain't in the barber shop. They are as out of place there as a monk in a nunnery.

The days when a chap could be happy in the thought that should he feel the need to escape from female tantrums, there existed a haven where he could claim sanctuary, over the threshold of which no woman would dare to cross, are almost gone. The most exclusive man's club in the world is practically non-existent.

The barbershop I went to many years ago, was not behind a sweet shop, as were most barbers, but was on the ground floor of a tenement house. People lived above and underneath but it was completely isolated from them as it had it's own steps outside leading to the shop door, over which a barber's pole stuck out, and a sign stating that Alf Mantel, barber, cut Gents hair, trimmed moustaches, and shaved with the finest honed razors.

Alf had three blokes working with him and a lather boy. The lather boy is an extinct species now but was as inevitable in a barber shop as eggs are to bacon. His job was to apply a thick layer of shaving soap to the chins of customers wanting a shave, ready for the barber to shave off. As it only cost tuppence most gents had a shave, especially on Saturday afternoon in readiness for the evenings activities, and he was kept on the go all the time, lathering, working the green solidified brilliantine in the hair of finished customers for the barber to comb, sweeping up the piles of cut hair and being a general dogsbody.

Alf's boy was named Reggie and he always wore a cloth cap with his ears tucked under the sides, even while he was working. 

He was unmercifully bullied by the barbers and teased by the herbs who pinched his cap and threw it to each other when he tried to get it back. He got very upset and tearful which made the lads tease all the more until Alf got fed up with the noise and scuffling and finished the joking by snatching the cap

from whoever had it saying "Pack it up. If you want to sod about, do it outside" and tossing it back to Reggie, always said "If your earoles ain't back in bed and this bloody floor swept up in two minutes, you're sacked " As this happened several times a week it was purely a ritual, but Reggie never got used to it and was haunted by fear of getting his cards.

I felt sorry for him, as he lived down my street and I knew he lived alone with his mum as his old man had scarpered when he was at school, and he had to give her the 10/6d a week he earned there.

The only money he got for himself was the odd penny tip he got, and they were few and far between, as the crafty barbers did the final brush up of the coat to make sure they got any dropsy going, and

who could blame 'em ? They was only on a couple of quid a week.

Funny enough, it wasn't until his dad hopped it that Reggie started tucking his ears under his cap. Wonder what the mind shrinkers would make of that ?

Anyway, did a roaring trade, did Alf, what with all the kids during the week, and there were thousands of 'em, there being no telly in them days and folk had to do something to pass away the time; and all the herbs on Sats who came in for the three S’s in readiness for the evening festivities like taking a bride up the pictures, going to the local dance hall, having a few jars round the boozer, or simply having a roll round the town in the hopes of having a bit of luck where the birds were concerned. Leastways, a lot of them did that, as Alf sold a hell of a lot of the old packets of three which hung on cards next to the mirrors in front of the chairs. The three S's, by the way, were what you asked for if you wanted a complete going over, being literally interpreted as a s---, shave and shampoo.

Like a beehive it was with all the yatter of blokes arguing the merits of their local teams, favourite fighters, or fancied horses. Every topic under the sun came up in discussion but no aggro occurred as Alf, with one of his finest honed razors in his mitt, could have sliced an earole on any troublemaker before he shaped up. And would have, and all, cos many a lad went out with plaster stuck on his earlobe and Alf's stock apology of "Sorry mate, but what do you expect if you don't keep your loaf still" after having said something that he hadn't liked.

It was always a bit dodgy sitting in Alf's chair after you'd been chatting football with someone. If you'd been taking the mick out of Millwall, who he supported, it was odds on that he'd have heard you, and you got yourself a bloody collar. But it never stopped blokes going there as in the room behind the shop were a couple of tables where you could sit and get a cup of tea and a saveloy or have a go on the pin tables and one-armed bandits round the walls, after your trim up.

Another of Reggie's jobs that was, dishing out the char and serving the savs, which he had to stop in a hurry when one of the barbers hollered through the door "Lather up " or "Brill on." or Alf shouted "Get the hair off this bloody floor, it's up round our knees"

Like I said, there ain't many of the good old S.B.& S's shops around, which is more the pity, and the conservationists should fight tooth and nail to preserve those that still exist.

When a chap wants his hair cut, if he wants a shampoo to follow he'll tell the barber so. He don't want some scissor-wrangler to tell him "I couldn't possibly cut your hair without washing it first, darling" 

Don't get me wrong, I'm not an anti long, hair style fanatic. Everyone is entitled to wear his loaf the way he likes it, and if he desires to let it spread all over his boat race, that's up to him. I don't exactly agree with my brother, who once said to me "Can't understand why young fellows today, go to such pains and expense to grow on their face what grows in profusion and for nothing round their backside".

But I know what he felt.

And I plead for the preservation of some the places where old fashioned blokes as us can still be asked "how would you like it, sir ?" and no matter what you say, you still get a short back and sides.

The barbers I go to is one of these peaceful backwaters behind a Tob. and Con. shop, where you're as likely to see a female as you are a Rabbi at a Catholic jumble sale.

The chap who runs it calls it "The last of the Summer Wine" I'm not sure whether he means the shop or the piles of grey hair which is over the floor. Or the customers. But I don't think anything could be more aptly named.