My barber is a right stoner. In hindsight, it’s most probably not a good idea to have someone cutting your hair under the influence but a visit is always entertaining and a master class in patience.

Mr Snips certainly knows the meaning of a leisurely haircut. No flashing scissors and production line head shearing here. It’s more of a leisurely probe through the follicles¬†along with numerous breaks when he simply disappears into the adjoining kitchen for a smoke.

I went in today and after ten minutes off he goes. You could set a clock by it. A couple of minutes later I smell toast and the sound of him munching away while I sit dressed up in the chair like a shop dummy with a half shorn head. It’s not as thought I’m going to run off, is it? I hear him spark up and another couple minutes pass.

He drifts back in and carries on cutting my hair as if nothing’s happened. His brother comes in 20 minutes later and off he goes again for a smoke. Forty minutes later and he still hasn’t finished. I only asked for a short back and sides, not a red carpet job.

Someone else comes. One of stoner’s strange menagerie of friends. He looks like¬†Boris Karloff and sits dead eyed and monosyllabic by the back wall saying nothing while stoner chirrups on about life to him. Same old shit. His holiday in Cyprus. Football. Traffic jams. Moaning about his utility bills. Boris raises his eyebrows and coughs at selected points but says nothing for the entire one sided conversation before asking for a cigarette and leaving.

I’m spoilt for choice between this and the world’s most miserable cafe down the drag. Shakespeare would love it.

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