Lush Gutters

The time is 2:30pm. About 45 minutes earlier I decided that the ungodly mess sat atop my head had been allowed its rebellious freedom for far too long. Today, at long last, I would bring it to heel. I have, however, walked past several barber shops and hairdressers, all perfectly respectable, the closest of which was about five minutes from my front door.

Clearly this is a process I have absolutely no love for.

I have never enjoyed going to the barbers. There are many problems for me, problems that may seem obvious to some and ridiculous to others, but problems nonetheless, the first of which is that I quite simply never know what I’m supposed to ask for. No big deal, I hear you say, hairdressers deal with this all the time, they’ll help you out.

This brings us to the second problem. I live in Berlin, and my German sucks. Sometimes it’s hard enough to communicate what you want done to your hair even when sharing a common language with the person wielding the scissors, so this is a pretty big deal for me.

The third and largest problem is that these kinds of human interactions often bring out great anxiety in me. There exists in me a constant worry that people will realise that I have no idea what I’m doing. The possibility of embarrassment is a permanent preoccupation. It doesn’t matter that I’ve successfully accomplished this exact task a handful of times in Berlin already, or that I’d managed to negotiate much larger life events and personal goals in the past without permanent injury. What matters is the here and now, and here and now I feel weak, nervous, and unprepared, like a nerdy kid roped into a playground football game.

What also matters is that I have yet to pluck up the courage to just f**king enter even one of the barber shops I’d passed so far. I’ve been walking for a while now, my hair has gotten no shorter, and my nerves are no calmer. What’s worse is that I’ve wandered in the direction of the busier part of town, and now all of a sudden the places I’m looking at are much larger and more stylish, with greater numbers of people waiting, all of whom look trendy and confident. I, meanwhile, am wearing jogging pants and a pea-coat over an old work hoodie.

This simply will not do.

I pause and turn in the direction of a much humbler establishment I’d walked past about 15 minutes earlier. The place looked normal enough, the guy with the scissors looked fatherly and professional, and there wasn’t much of a queue, but there was a young lad sat idle at a counter with no cash register that threw me, and on such things decisions are made. Since I didn’t want to be seen standing outside looking in for too long I quickly carried on, mentally logging the place as a ‘maybe’. The hunt continues.

I realise this is ridiculous. It’s a hair cut. You’d think I was a paranoid extremist shopping for components for a bomb. I start walking.

As I progress back up the street I begin mentally rehearsing the words I’ll need, and as I reach the door I muster up some courage, push on through, and take a seat in the queue.

It has begun.

The guy with the scissors (we’re gonna call him Pete), his customer, and another guy in the queue are all chatting away in what I assume to be a Middle Eastern language. (At some point I hear someone mention Beirut, so I’m gonna gamble on Lebanese. Final answer.) It’s all very convivial and at some point Pete says something to the young lad by the counter, who heads off into a back room and returns with some sweet tea for me. You’d think this would put me at ease, but no, now it just means I’m locked in. I can’t leave after they brought me tea. I’d feel rude leaving if the place caught fire.

Of course I’m now left with the awkward decision about what to do whilst I wait. There are newspapers on the coffee table, but they’re in foreign and I can’t read them, nor do I trust that they’re of reputable quality, so I steer clear lest I be seen reading the German equivalent of the Daily Mail. I gaze around the room, but the place is made of mirrors, and it feels like everywhere I look I end up staring at someone. Eye-contact, in these situations, becomes a fate worse than death, and so I begin shuffling around awkwardly, carefully positioning myself between people’s reflections, and end up staring at a random shelf in the top corner of the room, head stiffly craned in the manner of someone trying to spot a lost frisbee on a neighbour’s roof. I do not look relaxed.

I reach into a pocket. Aaah, the smartphone: making solo queuing bearable since 2007. Mind you, this is a leaky life-raft. Remember, I care far too much about what people might be thinking of me, and my new worry is that I will be seen as a clueless millennial that can’t go five minutes without reaching for his Korean-made iron lung. Nevertheless I deduce that it’s the best of a bunch of bad options, and away I go. I have no data, and so unbeknownst to those around me I’m actually just scrolling though my picture gallery.

I’m starting to feel my pulse soften, though, mostly due to the confident and genial demeanor of Pete, who I assume to be the owner. The guy looks like he was born holding scissors. His presence makes sense. He belongs here. He’ll take care of me. Oh sh*t, did he just say something to me?!

Apparently yes, he did. He motions to the free chair, and I go over. He still has a customer, so my initial impression was that he’s sending me to wait in the more comfortable chair. Oh Pete, I’d follow you anywhere.

But then some … new dude comes out of the back room. I don’t know this guy, he looks young, bored, and a little lackadaisical. He starts prepping. I haven’t had time to get used to this guy! Where did he come from?! Who the f**k is this guy?!

It’s too late to do anything. The guy – let’s call him Vinnie – starts putting the gown on me, but he’s taking a while, and he hasn’t said anything to me yet. So I don’t say anything either. I mean, what’s the etiquette? Isn’t he supposed to ask me what I want? Is it rude if I tell him before he’s ready, like ordering from a waiter that’s still five yards from the table? Nobody teaches you this sh*t!

I dive in. I just need a simple tidy up and a cut. How hard can that be to communicate? I’ve practiced this. Simple German, Max, simple German.

“Hallo, guten tag. So! Ich brauche die Rücke und seiten sauber machen, bitte, und dann vielleicht … halb auf den kopf. Danke!”

Google translate would later inform me that I had been a bit wide of the mark: “Hello, good day. So! I need the back and sides clean, please, and then maybe … half upside down. Thank you!”

Vinnie doesn’t bat an eyelid. He immediately figures that I’m lost and alone and helpfully goes into idiot mode. In German: “You want a little bit off, or a lot?”

“A little bit, please.”

Away we go. In my distress I haven’t taken off my jacket or my hoodie, and now under the black gown my nervous energy has started to roast me. To make matters worse the excess layers, plus the hood, have bunched up under the gown and look like they’re restricting the space around my neck. Oh God, I’m making this hard work for Vinnie. The guy must think I’m a right weirdo. Stay calm, Max. Stay calm.

I look to see how much he’s cutting off. Barely anything. It immediately dawns on me that I have no idea how much this will cost.

Under the gown my fingers are interlocked and my hands squeezed tightly together. I spot this and try to ease up and relax my shoulders, but a handful of seconds glancing back at the mirror and they’re tight again. I am not enjoying myself.

The one thing I’m grateful for is that Vinne isn’t talking to me. This is a huge relief. Adding awkward, high-school German to this equation would turn me to dust, so I’m very much game for the silent treatment. I really just want this to be over.

Vinnie, of course, turns out to be really bloody good at his job. That’s the thing about these situations; there is almost never an actual reason for stress. I got a damn fine trim. The fringe he left kinda long but I wasn’t about to chance my German or risk any more awkwardness, so I put together a series of appropriately satisfied smiles and motioned to be released.

But Vinnie isn’t letting me off the hook so easily. He asks something in German. I don’t understand, but figuring that after this long it’d be too odd to cop to my terrible German I just say ‘Ja’. I have no idea what I’ve agreed to. Vinnie nods and takes out an old-timey shaving blade. My pulse quickens. Is … is he gonna shave me?!

Alarm bells are seriously ringing, not only because I really, really do NOT want a shave, but because it’ll surely add more euros to the final price, and more minutes to the ordeal. All this because I felt it’d be embarrassing to say the words, “Mein Deutsch is nicht gut”. Or even the just the word “nein”.

My luck is in. He’s just tidying the sides around the ears. Exhale. About a minute later we’re done. More satisfied smiles. My lips say “Yes, that is perfect!” but my eyes are screaming, “I want to go home!”

The ordeal is almost at an end. Only payment remains.

Vinnie starts to tidy up, Pete’s nowhere to be seen all of a sudden, and the kid by the empty counter is more interested in his phone. I pull out my wallet, the universal sign for “I’d like to pay”, but no immediate results are forthcoming, and by now I’m very confused as to who the hell I’m supposed to give my f**king money to.

Eventually Pete comes back in and rescues the situation, gesturing to the kid to take my cash. It’s €12. The mystery of the missing cash register is solved by the revelation of a tin box under the counter that contains the dough, from which I’m handed my change. I leave €2 on the counter, smile, nod, say thanks, and flee.

It’s over.

I unclench, my shoulders droop, and my racing mind begins to decelerate. It’s a beautiful, blue-sky day. I trot home, glancing at my reflection in car windows.

That fringe is kinda long…

On my way home I pop into the local supermarket and purchase a pair of scissors. I think we all know where this is going. Minutes later I’m peering into my bathroom mirror battling its inverted, deceitful reflections and trying in vain to maneuver my armed and disobedient fingers. As bits of my fringe begin to tumble into the sink I reflect on the day’s events, on how hard my heart had been pounding, on how the simple task of getting one’s hair cut still manages to reduce this 31 year old to a gibbering, sweaty bundle of nerves.

It is impostor syndrome on a micro-scale. It all stems from a fear of judgement, a blind terror that someone I’ve never met might consider me unfit to adult. Then there’s the general all-purpose fear that everything will just go to sh*t, that because of my feebleness I’ll end up with a haircut that’ll make parents in the street gasp in horror and briskly usher away their children.

I know how ridiculous this sounds. Life has given me so few reasons to be fearful, and knowing what horrors so many around the world deal with imbues me with the very same embarrassment I work so hard to avoid. But confidence doesn’t come in bottles. The best I can do is push on through.

Once I feel enough is enough I stop, placing the scissors on the sink, and inspect my new haircut.

It is exactly how I want it.