On Waxing and Waning

I have been going to the same barber now for a year or so. He works alone in a first-floor room above a tattoo parlour and must surely be looking forward to the day he retires or wins the lottery. I notice while waiting my turn that he doesn't engage much in conversation with his clients, which may be because many of them are transient and/or foreigners - the salon being next to the university - so he shares little or no common cultural ground with them. Sometimes I feel a bit sorry for him and start a conversation - at least we are both British and of a certain age - but he has been isolated for so long that he has lost the art of it and his response is generally a monologue rather than an exchange.

But he is meticulous in his craft and thorough with each client, regardless of any queue that might be building. And he maintains his composure even when dealing with young men who quibble and fuss over stylistic details so minor as to be undetectable to anyone but themselves. I'd like to think he finds my affected nonchalance quite refreshing by contrast but, in truth, he is irritated by it. Each time he finishes cutting he asks me if I would like "a little wax dressing". I always decline - it’s a hangover from my 'Mr. Natural' hippie days - and he looks downcast and spurned.

But one of my more dashing friends has lately been dropping hints about the necessity for us older gentlemen to pay more attention to personal grooming, especially in respect of residual hair, so I took heed and, on my last visit, succumbed to the barber's blandishments to apply a little wax dressing. The result - though I say it myself - was a visible improvement to shape and sheen. Even my partner agreed and I subsequently persuaded myself that no real harm had been done in the putting aside of my principles - though I do worry about where it might stop: vanity-driven body-enhancement is a slippery slope to tattoos, fake tans, luminescent teeth and botox injections.

The diary for last week contained two social engagements and, with my newly found grooming obsession, I made the decision to go public with the hair-wax. But first I had to buy some (it had all washed out by then). I didn't think it would be difficult but I had not taken into account the level of ignorance I had attained during a lifetime's disdain of hair products. Even in the biggest chemist shop in town I could find nothing as innocuous as "a little wax dressing" among the shockingly expensive jars, pots and tubes of styling gel, strong-hold gel, wet-look gel, texturising cream, styling clay, styling fibre, styling glue, styling putty and styling pomade; although there was deeping wax, shape-defining wax and moulding wax. Overcome with indecision and insecurity I abandoned the project and went for a cappuccino and a read of the newspaper instead. Still, the looming social engagements re-focused my resolve and I went to another shop where I concentrated on labels featuring the word "wax". Still unsure which to choose, I was fortunate to find a solitary jar with a sticker saying "half price": my decision was made.

Come the occasion I opened the jar and was amazed - and amused - to find that someone had already dipped into it (I hadn't thought to check the seal). Perhaps it was a chap on his way to a date who had forgotten to groom up before leaving home: if so, I hope it worked for him. I tried it and waited all evening in vain for a compliment.