I went to an all boys high school that required short, neat hair. While the other boys seemed to be able to get some slick styles going within these general guidelines my hair, and refusal to put sticky product in it, always looked like it had been aggressively mowed down to the scalp. By the time I went to university I had given up on getting my hair cut at all, instead opting to look like a sheep:

When I moved to the Cayman Islands, I started getting my hair cut by a flamboyant gentleman at one of the only salons that had a website. But soon he got a little too friendly, telling me I may be losing my hair and trying to be my friend on Facebook. Remember when we used to go on Facebook, lol. Luckily some friends recommended I move to the Cayman Men’s Standard - getting a barber from the Philippines to cut your hair at one of the many barbers that only seem to recruit from one country.

The Cayman Men’s Standard cut involves small talk in which neither party fully understands anything the other is saying, direction is given and sometimes followed, wash, dry and then a very awkward mini massage.

The first time a barber started massaging my shoulders I had no idea what to do with myself. Did I accidentally book some kind of spa package? Why are they squeezing my arms during a haircut? How do I ask them to stop? To make matters worse, sometimes they will only massage one shoulder and completely forget the other side making you feel lopsided.

At this point, I’ve allowed these massages to go on for so long it would seem completely insane to suddenly say I never liked them. I’ve thought about just acting like I’m running very late every time I go and asking them to skip it, but can never muster up the courage in the moment. So the massages continue.

While I’m clearly not in the mood for relaxation after just being sheared through incoherent small talk, the massage ends quickly. A heated wet towel is slapped over my face for 5 seconds before I awkwardly scurry to the exit where I’m then robbed in pure daylight by the receptionist. “Would you like to add a tip?”

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After years of trial and error I finally found a barber who I like. I found him using Instagram stalking search to seek the perfect fade, and thankfully he has cut my hair for years now without once requesting I be put on that same Instagram. By thankful, I mean offended he hasn’t even offered. Am I not pretty enough? I’m going to say no but I at least want to be asked.

Unfortunately in the last two sessions he has started a new thing where he proudly shows me the back of my head. As someone who doesn’t often see the back of their head I find this very off-putting, and a terrible way to end my twenty minute spa hair experience. “Good job,” I say, before fist bumping and making a swift exit. I may need to move.

I like the gym. I like the endorphin rush, I like feeling good about my body, and I like an excuse to publicly stare at myself in the mirror. I don’t like the smell, I don’t like that other people are there, and I absolutely do not appreciate the cleaners always thinking the best time to clean under that bench is when I’m on it.

The gym has been a part of my life since university. I started going after a silly accident where I fell off a bicycle and dislocated my shoulder. My dad suggested that building some muscle would help with my recovery and I got hooked. It was a social activity only on rare occasions. The gym was mostly personal time, a healthy escape for my body and more interestingly my mind. Who would’ve thought fitness would be the key to unlocking some emotional and mental stability? There were so many jocks in high school who didn’t appear to have either.

When I say gym, what I’m really referring to is weight lifting. For some cardio is the core of their fitness regime, but picking up and - now this is important gym rats - putting down (not dropping) heavy things, is more my sugar-free jam. I enjoyed cross country as a kid, mostly influenced by my dad’s passion for running, but I enjoyed it because we often ran through nature. For a similar reason, I’ve really enjoyed seasons of swimming long distance in the Cayman Islands. Randomly swimming with a turtle or a stingray for a few minutes is pure magic. Swimming laps in a pool? Not so much.

Weight lifting is efficient. In a short amount of time you can burn energy and your body keeps burning that energy long after as it recovers. Efficiency is the name of the game they say, whoever they are. For the last few years, I’ve gone to the gym during my lunch break at work. This is often a quieter time, although if I take lunch a bit later there may be filthy nasty teenagers lurking about. It’s also the least impactful on time with my family. No point in looking good if my wife doesn’t get the time to enjoy it. Returning from a lunch break at the gym revitalizes my brain, and has significantly increased my productivity in the afternoon.

I used to listen to music at the gym, very loud music, which was motivational and helped drown out my thoughts along with the people grunting and dropping things around me. But for the last few years I’ve used the time to listen to podcasts. When I had an entry level accounting job I could listen to podcasts all day at work to get me through the dreary monotony of the numbers slowly sucking the life out of me. But as I’ve moved into more interesting, experienced positions, I’ve needed to engage my whole brain. It’s hard to have an in depth discussion about complex accounting policy whilst also listening to an interview with the founder of AirBNB. So now those podcasts come with me to the gym.

Here, my mind can be distracted from the hard work I’m putting my body through by an interesting conversation, without annoying everybody in the gym because I’m tongue wagging with a friend while sitting on the bench press. Those conversations get my brain thinking and my creative juices flowing. It’s because of an interview I listened to with the CEO of Substack in the gym, that I started writing this column, and rebranded my old creative hang out from Srizzil, which sadly nobody could ever say or spell, to Dad the Accountant.

This ritual of exercising my body has grown and expanded from a recovery tool, to an aesthetic goal, to being an essential part of my mental health. So I’ll tolerate that I have to share the space with other humans, at least until I become a millionaire and can have my own private gym.

The stinky man has left, the air conditioner trying hard to filter his remnants. The lady - workout still not started - is sitting on the bench next to me swiping through her selfies. The loud man is now grunting like a wounded buffalo as he lifts a weight that will definitely hurt his back. I take a swig of ice cold water, turn up the volume on the How I Built This Podcast, and grab the dumbbells. Let’s do this.

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P.S. I made a video about the fitness app I use in the gym a few years back that you may find interesting. I still enjoy using it today.