In the early days of the Covid pandemic, there was much talk of us all pulling together in a reincarnation of the Blitz mentality, which was cited as the apogee of societal cohesion. I thought it overblown. WW2 was long ago and the circumstances quite different. For a start, it was an actual war – civilians were being bombed and there were no deniers of the fact. Fast forward to the pandemic and the “pulling together” applied mostly to the key workers, while the government initially resiled from its responsibility to protect its citizens, many of whom were – and remain – in a position to sit it out comfortably at home. Still, I suppose there are superficial similarities between the war and the pandemic. For instance, then, as now, it must have been difficult to get a professional haircut.
Not that it mattered so much during the war, as everyone wore hats, either as part of their military uniform or their civilian garb and, for men at least, a ‘short-back-and-sides’ was not much of a challenge to any amateur barber. Nowadays, in a less homogeneous society, those who are inclined to keep up appearances must resort to diverse means. For example, there is a developing trend for women to wear hats to Zoom meetings – or so I am assured by my Other Half, who spends a lot of time in such situations and has recently placed an online order for several jaunty caps. For my own part, aware that my quiff has been getting seriously out of control, I have played down the issue with a “what do you expect” shrug of the shoulders (along with some judicious use of lighting). After all, I was, for a certain period of my youth, committed to the natural look, which meant leaving hair and beard uncut for a several years. However, I have long since abandoned that position in favour of a more flattering personal grooming regimen – the King Lear look sits ill with me – though I do still have a residual aversion to messing overly with whatever comes naturally.
However, things came to a head the other day, when my O.H. commented – and not for the first time – that my hair is a mess and makes me look twenty years older than I am. Knowing, as we both do, that hats are not the answer – they perch somewhat ludicrously on me, like the proverbial “silk hat on a Bradford millionaire” – there was just one option: “Well,” I said, “cut it, then.” And so, with some brief instruction from me, she took up the scissors and boldly went where she had not previously ventured. Fifteen minutes later, she stood back in astonishment and declared the result “not bad!” And I have to say that the cut, intentionally or otherwise, has a pleasingly roguish, ready-tousled look that is in keeping with my fantasy self-image. I could have paid a fortune for such a makeover (though I would have asked for a discount if I had been promised a “twenty years younger” look).
Later, I was queueing at a kiosk when an old-timer with a tea-cosy on his head, who was next in line but not quite the full two metres away, struck up conversation. He commented on the unexploded WW2 bomb that had been found in Exeter and destroyed by a Bomb Disposal Squad. This led to a list of other such incidents closer to home, which led to the story of his father’s wartime experiences (it was a slow-moving queue). Oh no, I thought, here comes the Blitz simile but, fortunately, my turn came up and I excused myself to place my order, then stand in the collection queue, where I rather enjoyed the fact that my hairstyle remained untroubled by the brisk easterly.
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