#3: The appliance of science

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  Buenos Aires, Argentina
Friday, February 6, 2009

As I sat waiting for an international haircut, my first of this travelling adventure, I began to think of mathematics.  I'm sure the intellectual debate is still raging (or perhaps that should be 'recurring'?) as to whether maths is a science or not, but I think it's a general given that a specific formula should produce a specific result, ie. 2+2 = 4.

I propose to you that such mathematics cannot be applied to your average barber's shop.  For whilst I wait to get my locks chopped or die of old age - which ever is sooner - it dawns on me that the components of a male hairdressers are pretty much the same wherever you happen to be.

For example, there is always a plate glass frontage so passers by can see just how many men inside are contemplating suicide, or simply just to check themselves out in the reflection.  There are then three dentist-style chairs inside - not two, that would be ludicrous, whilst four would clearly be overkill. 

On a fake-marble counter there stands a number of tall glass jars containing a midly flourescent (and possibly radioactive) liquid, now for the storage of razors but where once had resided aliens heads, or cloned brains.  This liquid is bafflingly created by the globally mysterious brand of 'Nitro-Spermicide', or similar.

To quicken customer's aging process whilst waiting, a small analogue TV is fixed precariously high on the wall at an unhelpful angle, of a type circa 1985 which can only be purchased specifically for use in a hairdressers.  Even though this TV can miraculously receive all global channels in all global dialects, it is permanently tuned to a channel repeating obscure news headlines and horse racing results. 

The staff are also strangely similar the world over too.  Even though the shop has three chairs, only two men are present to cut your hair for long periods of the day, especially at busy times when it is mandatory for one to go AWOL.  One of the remaining men is younger, perky and fancies himself as a playboy - even going so far as to review his own shoddy haircut in the mirror whilst performing similar carnage on yours.  The other man is older, quieter, does not speak any known language and may prey on small children at home-time.  This is the barber that every new customer receives and every existing customer avoids.

Despite all of these similarities (and I haven't even started on the uncomfortable chairs or dubious literature), the results that are worn are always different from place to place.  As such, my current barnet closely resembles that of Tin-Tin at the front, with a precision 90 degree square crop adorning the back.  Thanks to a few weeks in the sun and a recent bout of sunburn on the neck, the hairline newly exposed is brilliantly white - like a fringe of white sand around an islet in the Red Sea (if it were truly red).  It won't be the last fashion faux-pas of this trip I'm sure, but at times I'm glad my hair grows like bamboo, as in a week's time nobody will know the history and a mullet will be perilously close once again.

Just thought I'd share that ditty since I survived the boredom to tell the tale.  I promise that next time, there'll be at least a 72.48% chance of me writing something more meaningful.  Though I'd hate to be so formulaic.

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