Entering the barbers, situated along the main road of our town, without my usual magazine clipping of George Clooney to offer the hairdresser as a guide for my impending haircut, I established my position in the chair.
Without a word, except for a mutual greeting, we both knew what was expected and the barber, Mr Scissorhands, grabbed his tools in preparation for the job.
With briskness, and competence, he set about the task with electric shaver, scissors and open cut razor to produce a haircut that is worthy of any 45-degree temperature and a close shave that will now require me to produce my ID at the bar.
The shop had become a modest sideshow by the time I opened my eyes with the barber now using me as a model for a couple of younger (up and coming) hair artists.
Happy with my A$2.74 tidy up I walked away knowing I will return. However, what I did miss (due to language difficulties) was the usual chit chat one has at the barbers and today I was desperate to hear Mr Scissorhand’s opinion on Miley Cyrus’s wedding dress.