George the barber shop

I used to leave the barber shop with a quiet sense of disappointment. I know I have not the most sculptable head of hair, but still. It is a case of entering with hope, and leaving without it.

But now I go to George the barber shop, on Streatham High Road. It is a father and son place, and I am pretty sure neither is called George.

On entering, one is stirred by the fact that here is a barber shop with all the essentials. By this I don't just mean the chairs and the washbasins and the hair on the floor. I mean the faded pictures of bequiffed '80s models, with Princess Diana in pride of place. The smell of hair gel; the sound of an overworked electric razor and football on the radio.

The old man leaps up from his foreign newspaper and offers me a seat. He thrusts the protective gown around my neck a shade too tight, like all good barbers should do. He does not have much chat - he leaves that to his son, who is waxing lyrical about Streatham ice rink - but he is attentive. His thick lips chew away in time with his scissors as he tames my thinning locks. He takes enormous care of trimming around my ears and even bothers to take a cutthroat razor to shave what little neck hair I possess.

When the job is completed he pulls out a mirror and shows me the back of my head. This is never something I enjoy looking at, it being a reminder that, despite my age, I still essentially look like a schoolboy. However, given the fact that I am in barber shop heaven, I give my wholehearted approval.

He brushes the cut hair from my face and unties me, and we totter over to the till. We go through the elaborate procedure of him asking for eight pounds, and me giving ten and refusing change. At this he gives me a handshake and a pat on the back and both men wish me well. I wish them both every good luck, and leave feeling happy despite my hair being the underwhelming sight it has always been.