You will have read elsewhere in the press, over the years, that I cut my own hair. If a man is meant to take charge of his own destiny, it makes little sense to hand over care of his hair to another. That's how I've felt for many years.
At first, my attempts at follicular management were clumsy and full of mistakes but, as I became more experienced, I became clumsier and made even more mistakes. I used a beard trimmer for my heid and, until the Burd pointed it out, did not know that
for several years I had deployed it upside-down.
It didn't bother me. I shaved my hair blindly – going by touch – and, generally speaking, the results were OK. The basic shape was what I wanted, though the fine detail was shocking to purists. There were bald patches and what the Burd called ridges, where two expanses of hair side by side would be completely different lengths. In addition, I was unable to reach properly the central lane at the back of my heid, leading to a Mohican effect that occasionally caused titters among the untutored.
But at least the mistakes were mine, and resulted from the catch-22 whereby, generally, I cut my hair after drink had fortified my courage. Alas, the same drink caused me to take wild swipes and, on one occasion, to doze off momentarily, while the trimmer bored into my heid. I awoke with a start that time. It took two towels to staunch the blood.
I'd been under pressure for some time to visit a proper hairdresser. The prospect appalled me. Stress arises when you do not control your life and, at the hairdresser, for periods up to an hour, you are emphatically not in control of proceedings.
I had hideous memories, too, of being massacred follicularly and of staring into the mirror with horror, until the hairdresser asked if his carnage was all right, and I would put on a simpering smile and say: "Yes, splendid. Wonderful. Magnificent. Oh, I'm so happy." Then I'd even gave him a tip. The cowardly hypocrisy horrified me and I left feeling a lesser man, not only on the top of my heid, but deep within my soul.
Historians among you will be familiar with my worst haircut, which occurred when I had my pony-tail removed. I should have done it myself. Instead, I went to what I suppose must have been a salon, but would better have been termed a barnet-abattoir. The sinister owners seemed to look on my heid as an experimental area and I left with a kind of architectural folly rising from my temples up towards the clouds. It was lunch-hour and I was due back at the Hootsmon. But I couldn't return looking like this.
In despair, I went to a nearby barber, famed for shaving the heids of our more simian citizens. I didn't want my heid shaved but begged them to remove as many of the balustrades and crenellations as they could. They did their best, but the result remained hellish. I told myself no-one at work would notice but, as I arrived on the first floor, a long open-plan area that looks like an insurance office, a ripple of applause spread the whole length of the walk to my desk, where I told my mate, Chris: "Before you say anything, shut up."
Later, I discovered a hairdresser called Paul Smith, who seemed to know what he was doing, and I stuck with him until I moved home to Winterisle and gave up such luxuries. Imagine his surprise, therefore, when – prodded by the stick-wielding Burd – I walked into his new Musselburgh premises the other day.
It was the first time he'd seen me in years. Not only did he remember me, but he remembered ma heid and proceeded to restore it to human shape, as if I'd hardly been away. It was a good haircut, without ridges or bald patches and, while he commented on the Mohican at the back, he did not titter, but merely sighed.
Paul is a true professional, whereas I'm a hacking amateur. I'm entitled under the Geneva Convention to do what I want with my own heid, but must acknowledge there are times when I need to cede control of it to those who see the wider picture, as it were. I may have a brief hack at my follicles now and again, probably after a few drinks. But, in general, I will heed the old adage: if you want a job done properly, get someone else to do it.
• Read Robert McNeil every Tuesday and Friday in The Scotsman.
The full article contains 797 words and appears in The Scotsman newspaper.
