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.

Targeting the Market

De-cluttering continues: the handsome piano I bought 18 years ago and which has been played just a few times - and only then by a visiting friend - can no longer justify its claim on floor-space, especially since I discovered via the internet that it may have significant value as a liquidated asset. I took a photo and sent it off to a dealer in excited anticipation and then I went down to the bin-room with a few of the smaller unloved items - and the household waste, which is evidently man's work.

On the street a car pulled up alongside me, its driver leaned out of the window and said "Scusa, parli Italiano?" Ever ready to help a stranger find his way I answered "Si, un po'," whereupon he reverted to English and told me a story about having been to a trade fair. Assuming he was lost I started to direct him to the airport. "No," he said "I have sat-nav. I just want to give you something." He pulled out a fancy presentation box containing a chunky wristwatch, sang its praises and explained that it was left over from the exhibition but that if he took it back to Italy he would have to pay duty on it: he would rather give it to me. Instinct told me not to trust his intentions so I declined the offer by explaining my de-cluttering crusade. He drove off shaking his head, but he is a poor salesman who does not see that the target market for blingy watches is probably not some grey-haired geezer emerging from a bin-room dressed in M&S jogging pants.

Later that day, while in town, I passed a man trying to sell something called "Bikishu". After a while I realised that he was most likely a recent immigrant who had joined the ranks of Big Issue magazine sellers strategically positioned outside the busy shops. I subsequently walked past six of them without witnessing a single sale, so it occurred to me that they also might benefit from my views on targeted sales techniques. Although there is undoubtedly plenty of foot-fall around their pitches, are they the right kind of feet? They should try their luck on the steps of the art gallery where feet may be fewer but belong to leisured, educated, liberal-minded arts patrons who might be more inclined - if only because of social conscience - to buy a magazine from a forlorn-looking refugee.

The business pages of the weekend papers revealed that even large, organised and established businesses must keep an eye on their targets. The new management at TGI Friday has recognised that its decline in customer numbers is due to most diners’ aversion to the rowdy party atmosphere it has encouraged over the years. They have now calmed things down and banned party balloons which, incidentally, is a good thing, since the earth is running out of irreplaceable helium stocks.

Another company which has run into a problem is Gillette whose sales are badly hit by the present fashion for beards and by the moustache-growing efforts of the Movember movement. There is talk of them diversifying into a chain of barber shops which offer a beard-trimming service, at least until the fashion recedes, whereupon they would flog it to a hedge fund. Meanwhile, if I were the owner of a long-established but languishing business in the moustachio wax sector, I would be offering myself up for sale in October.

But enough of big business: I put the papers to one side and went to check my email. The good news is that the piano dealer responded promptly to my enquiry; the bad news is that his offer is derisory. Apparently I must look elsewhere for my target market.

Finding a Path

I’m tired of Twitter: the tweets have become unmanageably numerous, their provenance byzantine and their relevance to my life questionable. And now I’m getting frustrated by Facebook: its algorithms are relentless, its process addictive and its friendships demanding. There are two friends in particular who cause me considerable anxiety: one of them has an astonishingly wide range of interests and pursuits, yet still finds time to document them all in detail - which makes me feel limited, like one who knows a great deal about stamp collecting but little about anything else; the other one is an advocate and supporter of more worthy causes than I even knew existed - which makes me feel guilty for not showing more concern for other peoples’ problems.

Social media undoubtedly bring the benefits of connectivity to millions, but they also bring a certain amount of pressure to follow-up all the interesting things, adopt all the right-on movements and keep up with events. At times I find it overwhelming and become paralysed by indecision. I know that if I were to adopt yet another interest or cause I would fail to deliver anything more than superficial activity when what is called for is deep and lasting commitment. It looks and feels like defeatism, but in the face of an overwhelming tide one must adopt a flotation tactic. It is time to de-clutter my mind.

As a way of limbering up I am starting with the physical objects around me. It’s not so difficult because there aren’t many: apartment living does not allow for the accumulation of much stuff. With neither garage nor attic in which to “store” incoming objects they soon acquire an awkward presence which begs the question of their real value in the scheme of things. In these circumstances the choices are simple: the stuff can be thrown out, freecycled or sold. Better still, it need never be introduced in the first place.

And then there are some time-consuming activities which can be culled in order to gain head-space. For example, I just read a magazine article which featured answers to the question “What is the best way to sand and re-polish my engineered wooden floor?”  Because of my incurable interest in DIY – woodworking especially – I was compelled to read every one of the answers avidly and critically - and to regret not having seen the question coming so that I could send in a response. The answers were of mixed quality but there was one in particular which impressively quoted the thickness of veneer likely to have been laid onto the substrate. On reflection, however, the one which stays with me was the one which said, in effect, “Get a life.”

But, returning to mental clutter, although I strive to live in a minimalist interior and limit the extent of my displacement activities, my mind is like an old mansion, its unused rooms filled with memorabilia and its outbuildings stuffed full of scraps of information which might come in handy. It needs sorting out. I am, of course, not the first to seek a solution to this condition, which is one reason for the universal popularity of belief systems, which work by persuading individuals to accept a pre-packaged explanation of the purpose of life. These systems may involve a deity, some form of spirituality or a mortal figurehead - but the one thing they have in common is the assuasive message that there is only one path to follow.

But there isn’t. So, short of a lobotomy, I must find a coping strategy. My preliminary investigations have uncovered a technique which just might work. It’s known as laughter yoga and seems quite simple: you just have to laugh.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HZnihAwL_Ek

Let Harmony Prevail

There's a night club in the basement of the building adjoining the one I live in. (Actually, I'm ambivalent about calling it a "night club" since, although it certainly functions only during the night, it has no criteria for membership - unless you count the policy of selective admission defined by the appearance of the hopeful patrons and administered at the door by blokes you would have to be crazy to argue with. But times move on and my quibble over terminology is most likely explained by a lingering nostalgia for the passing of the term "discotheque" and a smidgeon of resentment in knowing that I would certainly not get past these doormen). I have no first-hand experience of what goes on in that subterranean haunt, but I imagine it is the same kind of thing that went on in discotheques - dancing and pulling - different only in scale, being fuelled by cheaper, more available drink and drugs, and driven by bigger, louder sound-systems.

These past couple of weeks I've attended several late night meetings held in my neighbour's apartment with the operators of the night club - polite, well-intentioned chaps who have a bit of a problem - now that we have brought it to their attention. Their licence to operate depends - among other things - on their not creating a noise nuisance for the people upstairs who prefer to sleep at night. Unfortunately, recent alterations to the interior of their building have breached the acoustic insulation with the result that we have been able to hear the records being played down below. (“Hi Ho Silver Lining” is not one of them).

I am inclined to sympathise with the night club operators, obliged as they are to spend a deal of time and money fixing the acoustic leak. It’s not really their fault: shit happens. Besides, I find it rewarding to be in dialogue with a segment of society which is culturally distant from me despite its physical proximity. I say ‘distant’ as opposed to ‘distinct’ because there is a connection via the discotheque lineage. One advantage of being older is that you have the benefit of having been young and, with a bit of luck, you don’t forget the ages you’ve been: which facilitates the natural process of inter-generational tolerance and understanding.

A more difficult challenge in respect of tolerance and understanding arises when there is perceived to be little or no common ground, as occurs when inter-societal connections are non-existent or fractured. Here, in multi-cultural Britain, we have daily opportunities to experience this challenge. We have cities where people of different races, faiths and cultures live in close proximity but in separate enclaves, their lives coinciding often only when commercial transactions take place.

There is the possibility that this will change over time and that mingling and mixing will erode the extremes of cultural difference which alienate one group from another. Already there are inner-city schools where more than 50 native languages are spoken, and places such as these are at the forefront of the battle to foster mutual understanding. They are doing a great job but we can't leave them to do all the heavy lifting: we should all do our bit to speed up the process. One simple way to achieve this would be to distribute educational T shirts with simple messages that divert attention away from our differences, and emphasise instead those things that we do have in common. I like the way this one summarises the various ways in which humans choose to react to a universal human experience.

The Luddites Never Stood A Chance

The precarious situation of the waged classes was highlighted in 1811 when the Luddites resisted the usurpation of their jobs by new-fangled machines. Since that time, employees have had mixed fortunes: some have managed to hang on to the coat tails of capitalism; others have found refuge in the relative stability of the professions; yet more have hunkered down in the bunkers of bureaucracy. Nevertheless the general trend is plain to see: the robots are coming and, as technology becomes more sophisticated, there will be fewer jobs for humans to do.

This effect, already well advanced in manufacturing industries, is now laying waste to the lower levels of clerical positions as more of us use online processes to complete our tax returns, book our flights or pay our bills. And the hot news is that it may soon be the turn of the teaching profession to feel the pinch, as several experiments involving the deployment of computers have demonstrated.

In India the pioneering work of Professor Sugata Mitra has shown that illiterate, non-English speaking children, given access for the first time to a computer terminal, quickly learn to find and navigate the internet. Furthermore, when set specific tasks, they make significant, measurable educational progress without the aid of teachers. In Ethiopia researchers have successfully brought knowledge (which is one definition of education) to remote villages where there are no schools by giving ipads to the kids. And in Kenya it's Kindles that are bringing reading to the masses. These results suggest that human intervention in the form of teachers may no longer be necessary. Some - Pink Floyd included - would even argue that the whole system of education is the establishment’s instrument of mass control and repression: in which case the demise of teachers should lead to a beneficial surge of individual development and creativity around the world.

The big tech companies are surely dedicated to the elimination of humans from their processes: they prefer algorithms. Facebook has a clever one which monitors your activity so as to work out your consumer preferences. It has another one which decides which of your “friends” it thinks you would like to hear from (by comparing your “likes”) and then ensures that those with different views will no longer irritate you by appearing on your newsfeed. Google is at it as well. A nifty piece of published research has proven that it delivers tailored search results to different individuals, despite their entering identical search terms under controlled parameters. In other words there is no such thing as a standard Google search: its algorithms will reinforce your prejudices and, in so doing, mimic the restricting activities of conventional education systems.

Sometimes algorithms may appear helpful – even beneficial – as when the likes of Kobo, Sony, Amazon et al. suggest books and records similar to those previously purchased - even if they don’t always get it right. I used to think that Tesco's algorithm was particularly prescient when it came to extrapolating my grocery preferences, until I realised that any fool, given enough time shopping in my company, could do as well. What Tesco really needs to work on is the programme that offers replacement items for those which are out of stock. My last delivery came with an aubergine shamelessly presented in place of a celeriac which, if deliberate, was tantamount to a provocative, mind-expanding experience, which is an uncharacteristic and dangerously subversive precedent for any algorithm.

The Luddites couldn't see it coming, but future employment prospects are only promising if you are a qualified algorithm writer - in which case you could have a job for life in the business of second-guessing human behaviour.