Unlike some who seem to cherish their time at the barber, I find very little to look forward to. As a kid, I hated having my hair cut, probably because it usually involved waiting for my mother’s significantly longer treatment to be completed. When I got older and started to be asked what style I wanted I never knew what to say. Aren’t you the expert? You tell me what I should do. I’m going to hate it either way.
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?”
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.