Five years ago, I found a copy of Anthony Bourdain’s Kitchen Confidential in a local charity shop. I had no idea who he was, but the back cover hooked me instantly. I devoured the book, taken in by his honesty, his humour, and his unapologetic opinions. But what truly resonated with me was his story. In many ways, it was just like mine. The Bourdainian chef, sweating under the fluorescent-hot lights of the line, grease coating the worn tiles, is a creature of raw adrenaline and cynicism. His world, as immortalised in Kitchen Confidential, is a rock ‘n’ roll ballet of debauchery, high-wire acts, and the brutal, silent language of knives and heat. But step away from the inferno of the deep fryer and into the climate-controlled cacophony of the hair salon—the kingdom of the stylist, the domain of the hairdresser—and you find the identical soul, merely wearing a different uniform.

The adrenaline rush and the necessary escape watches the kitchen runs on tickets, slams, and the ticking clock of service. Every minute is a crisis, every plate a potentially career-ending failure. This manic energy demands an equal and opposite release. For Bourdain and his ilk, the post-shift ritual was often salacious and swift: the late-night drinking, the dive bars, the stories traded—a temporary suspension of consequences born from knowing you cheated death for one more shift.

In the salon, The stylist, perpetually on their feet, smiling through client trauma, executing precision cuts while selling product, lives the same adrenaline curve. It is the silent, shared understanding with colleagues that breeds the same high-tempo, rock ‘n’ roll need for relief. The back alley smoke break the same debauchery, fueled by the same exhaustion, The Underbelly and The Confessional. Bourdain pulled back the kitchen’s curtain to reveal its honest, vulgar underbelly: the shortcuts, the drug use, the strict, unforgiving hierarchy. He found truth in the dirt.

The salon has its own, visible only to those who work there. The salacious stories here are whispered into mirrors. The hairdresser is the ultimate confessional, absorbing every marital crisis, every career failure, every self-loathing pronouncement. They hold secrets like a vault, often more intimately connected to their client’s vulnerability than a spouse or therapist. We are both, the chef and the stylist, tradesmen who deal in human desire: the desire for sustenance, and the desire for self-reinvention. Both are transactional, and both are brutally honest. The highest highs and the lowest lows are identical. The chef’s ultimate high is the perfect plating—that brief, transient moment of edible perfection before the food is consumed and forgotten. The stylist’s high is the total transformation. the client sees a better version of themselves in the glass. It is a moment of pure, fleeting creation.

The failure is also shared. The burnt sauce, the under-cooked protein, the plate sent back—it’s the chemical burn, the haircut gone rogue, the colour that went too dark. These failures are public, immediate, and must be absorbed. The failing ideology is the same: the job demands perfection, the human provides only excellence, and the constant striving leaves its mark—on the chef’s scorched arms and the hairdresser’s aching feet and carpal tunnel.

Bourdain’s legacy is a testament to the honesty of the working class artisan, the one who finds grit, truth, and beauty in the least-expected places. Whether you are navigating the scorching "hot zone" of the line cook or performing therapy and physics in the "high chair" of the salon, the core ideology remains: you are a maker, a fixer, a cynical optimist who believes in the redemptive power of the next creation. You are a professional observer of humanity, and you know, better than anyone, that the real stories are found far below the surface, in the chaos of creation. AB once said '‘Meals make the society, hold the fabric together in lots of ways that were charming and interesting and intoxicating to me. The perfect meal, or the best meals, occur in a context that frequently has very little to do with the food itself.” In the same way o feel the same way about the exchange between hairdresser and client.

As I absorbed his commentary on the restaurant world, a thought kept nagging at me: why had no one written a book like this about hairdressing? We all use this industry, yet we have no real understanding of what it entails. There are no books that get to the heart of what it's like to be a salon hairdresser. Who are the people cutting our hair? What is this job really about? No one has ever accurately described the dexterity, the creativity, and the sheer physicality involved, let alone the ins and outs of the industry itself.

Bourdain lifted the lid on the opaque world of kitchens two decades ago, and now everyone is obsessed with chefs and restaurants. Yet hairdressing remains surprisingly obscured from view. Hairdressers, however, have stories to tell. Their world is populated by them. They have access to every industry imaginable, with the experiences of thousands walking through their doors. They engage in conversations on subjects they'd never considered, all while working with the focus and precision of a maestro. Imagine the stories a hairdresser could tell you.

For twenty years, I’ve been a hairdresser. I’ve worked in luxury five-star salons and small, back-street independents. I’ve trained at the highest level and worked with global icons. I’ve been an assistant, a boss, and now I run my own salon. My writing comes from this experience and from the heart. My pieces are about the job—the good, the bad, and the downright shameful. They are also, of course, about my clients. Not their private lives—I would never betray that sacred trust—but about managing those complex relationships. My word is my bond, and the confidentiality I have with them is paramount, but there is enormous fodder for scrutiny, insight, and humour.

I use my experiences with some of my more challenging clients to explore how people view themselves and the world. It’s always a humbling experience. I try to voice my opinion without pushing my views on my clients, which is a fine balance. If I were to assess my clients based on their politics and beliefs, I’d probably be left with a skeletal client base. It takes an enormous amount of patience and skill to manage your own political boundaries alongside those of your clients.

But for every challenging client, there is an equal number that I adore—the ones who make it all worthwhile. They have made my job an essential part of who I am. Many have been with me for my entire career, loyally following me from salon to salon. Their support, trust, and friendship have humbled me in ways I can't explain. Without them, I never would have been able to start my own business. To them, our relationship has gone beyond friendship; it feels like I have an extended family. To those who know who they are, I am eternally grateful for their love and support.

Yet, even these relationships have a strange dynamic. As close as we become, we are only close in the salon. After the appointment, nothing is invested, and nothing is expected. Intense when we're together, and no contact when we’re not. I don’t know of any other relationship that works this way, but it doesn’t inhibit our ability to open up. If anything, it gives us more impetus to share in the time we have. There’s a genuine emotional connection under a time constraint. The exchange between clients and hairdressers is the very fabric of good mental health, and yet we are often oblivious to the ritual we're participating in. Everyone, good or bad, has a story about their hairdresser.

If you’re a hairdresser reading this, working in a salon, your true dedication to your art may never be fully realised. Perhaps you’ll step out for a quick cigarette between clients and see the latest ad campaign for Chanel splashed on the side of a bus. An emaciated model stares back at you, her hair looking like it was styled by a blind person. "I could do that," you'll think, and the truth is, you could—ten times over. The stylist who did that model’s hair was paid ten times more than you are, more than you’ll ever know. But know this: they could never run a column like yours. Never.

My 9:30 client is late, and even though it's only 15 minutes, it feels like a monumental setback. I know I’ll spend the rest of the day scrambling to make up the time. I can't get mad, though. He's a new dad, probably running on no sleep. I'll just smile, pretend it's no big deal, and get on with it. After all, my time is his time, right?

But his tardiness has a ripple effect. Now I'm late for my next client, a woman in her late fifties. Our monthly appointments are one of her few social outlets. Her life is a little grey, and she comes to me for a bit of sunshine. She talks endlessly about her job, her difficult family, and her unresolved past. I listen, nod, and occasionally ask a question, all while trying not to lose my mind. Our conversations feel like a one-way street; she unloads her burdens, and I soak it all in. I've learned that a lot of my job isn’t just about styling hair—it's about being an emotional punching bag. And I'm getting paid for it, so I guess that's the trade-off.

I became a hairdresser by chance, and it's been a wild ride. I've worked in everything from high-end luxury salons to small backstreet shops. I've met wonderful people and, frankly, some of the most difficult. We stylists are expected to perform miracles in a limited amount of time, not only creatively but emotionally. We're a sounding board for our clients' views and frustrations, even if we don't agree.

Running my own business has changed the dynamic. I have to care about my clients because my livelihood depends on them. But it's hard when I can't relate to them. My salon is in an affluent part of London, and I often feel disconnected from the people I serve. They complain about prices, as if my skill and time are worth nothing. I’ve had to bite my tongue to keep from yelling, “Go somewhere else if you want cheap!” I've listened to them talk about six-thousand-pound fridges and private jet trips, all while they lecture me about social issues. It's a world away from my own, and it can feel like I'm propping up their self-centred reality for a pay check.

I often feel dirty and used, taking money from the very people I resent. I want to tell them what I really think, but I know they wouldn't care. They’d just find a new salon. So I'm trapped in this world of my own making.

I hope that my voice speaks for the hard-working stylists out there. I hope in some way all my bitterness about the injustice of this industry, helps some of you. I hope that you can find something in this book that speaks to you, makes you feel like there is someone else out there who’s made all the mistakes, who’s been a failure and yet in the end it can somehow come good.

This book is a gentle nod of respect to the thousands of stylists out here in every corner of the country working like dogs performing miracle after miracle on every waiting client that comes into see them, one after the other, day after day, week after week, month after month. These are the best hairdressers, and I salute you, your dedication to your art will never be truly realised.

As an experienced hairdresser with many years in the industry, l've encountered a recurring challenge: clients often have unrealistic expectations when it comes to the value of our services. This issue is not just about the final look they desire but also about the price they expect to pay for it.

Many clients seem to believe that cutting hair is a simple task that requires minimal skill. This misconception couldn't be further from the truth. Hairdressing is an art form that demands a high level of expertise, precision, and creativity. Each client has unique hair types, textures, and preferences, which means that a one-size-fits-all approach simply doesn't work.It takes years of training and experience to master the techniques needed to deliver a personalised and flawless haircut.

Despite this, there is a palpable expectation for hairdressers to reduce their prices. Clients often compare our services to cheaper alternatives, not realising the significant difference in quality and skill. A professional haircut is not just about trimming the ends; it's about understanding the client's vision, assessing their hair's condition, and executing a style that enhances their overall appearance. This level of service requires time, effort, and a deep understanding of hair dynamics. Moreover, the tools and products we use are of professional grade, ensuring the best results for our clients. these come at a cost, which is factored into our pricing. When clients expect lower prices, they inadvertently devalue the expertise and resources that go into providing top-notch hairdressing services.

It's essential for clients to recognise that a professional haircut is an investment in their appearance and confidence. By choosing an experienced hairdresser, they are not just paying for a haircut; they are paying for the years of training, the quality of service, and the assurance of a style that suits them perfectly.

In conclusion, the value of hairdressing services should be appreciated for the skill, dedication, and artistry involved. As hairdressers, we strive to meet our clients' expectations, but it's equally important for clients to understand and respect the value of our work.

The air in the salon is thick with the sweet, chemical scent of fresh colour and the sharp tang of hairspray. The rhythmic snip-snip of scissors is a steady metronome in the background, a sound that, to a master, is as deliberate and meaningful as a sculptor's chisel against marble. A true artist in this space understands the quiet language of a client's hair the subtle differences in texture, the unique way it falls, the potential hidden within its fibers. They invest not just in a chair and a pair of shears, but in years of education, in advanced courses, in the relentless pursuit of perfection.

And yet, this mastery is a gilded cage. The industry, as a whole, is drowning in a sea of mediocrity. A quick, weekend course, a social media post, and a discount can now pass for expertise. The barrier to entry has crumbled, replaced by a low-cost, high-volume model that churns out passable haircuts and unremarkable colour jobs. This over-saturation of the average has poisoned the well. Clients, conditioned by the ubiquity of "good enough" and cheap deals, have lost their ability to distinguish true artistry from a basic service. The collective perception of the hair stylist has been reduced from a skilled artisan to a glorified cutter, and the value of their time, their experience, and their art has plummeted.

The most talented professionals are caught in a painful paradox. They are told they can't charge for what they are truly worth because clients won't pay. But it is not the client's fault. How can a patron be expected to understand the difference between a meticulously crafted balayage that wit grow out seamlessly and a rushed, foil-heavy dye job that will leave them with stripes a month later? The industry has failed to educate its own. It has not established clear standards, celebrated its masters, or created a pathway to excellence that is both visible and valuable to the public. It has instead prioritized speed and volume, leaving a trail of indistinguishable, lacklustre work in its wake.

The most damning truth is the absence of a unified, regulatory board. There is no central body to demand a minimum standard of expertise or to prevent the industry from becoming a free-for-all. This lack of oversight has turned the hairdressing world into a sort of Wild West, where anyone with a pair of scissors and a business license can open a salon, regardless of their skill or experience.

The market is flooded with practitioners who compete solely on price, further eroding the value of the true craft. This is not the fault of the public, but the failing of an industry that has no mechanism to protect its standards, and therefore no defence against those who are content with doing the bare minimum.

This is a crisis of value, not a failure of the market. The problem is not that society refuses to pay for skill; it is that the hair industry has made skill invisible. It has failed to create a system that elevates and protects its best and brightest, and in doing so, it has allowed the art of hair to be devalued by the very people who practice it. The true artist, with their hands, their heart, and their expertise, is left to fight a lonely battle against a tide of mediocrity that their own profession has enabled.

The UK government's Tackling Loneliness Network was formed in response to the growing issue of loneliness, which was exacerbated by the COVID-19 pandemic. The network, which includes over 70 organizations from various sectors, operates on the principle that a collaborative, whole-society approach is essential to addressing loneliness. Its vision is to be a "partnership of equals," with each member contributing their unique expertise, knowledge, and community connections to a shared goal.

The network focuses on four key areas:

1. Tackling loneliness in young people: This acknowledges that loneliness is not exclusive to the elderly.

2. Tackling loneliness in older people: A traditional focus of loneliness initiatives.

3. Local and place-based approaches: Recognising that solutions must be tailored to specific communities.

4. Digital inclusion: Addressing the role of technology in both causing and alleviating loneliness.

Loneliness is a deeply personal and pervasive issue, and its impact on mental and physical well-being has been formally recognised by governments, including the UK, which appointed a Minister for Loneliness in 2018. This was a response not only to the COVID-19 pandemic but also to the broader understanding that a significant portion of the population felt lonely and isolated long before lockdowns began. The government's strategy involves working with a diverse network of organizations to reduce the stigma associated with loneliness and to help people reconnect.

A key part of this strategy is signposting, where individuals are directed to resources and support. A total of £34 million was allocated to projects aimed at tackling loneliness, with a significant portion dedicated to this effort. Healthcare workers, for example, are being trained to spot the signs of loneliness and offer help. The idea is that everyday interactions—from a visit to the GP to a trip to the local shop—can serve as opportunities to make a difference.

However, a surprising omission from this extensive network is the hairdressing industry. In a list of over 40 organizations, including media giants, hospitality chains, and charities, there is no mention of hair salons, barbershops, or any related professional bodies like the National Federation of Hairdressers and Barbers (NFHB). This is a glaring oversight.

As a hairdresser with 25 years of experience, I am uniquely positioned to address the issue of loneliness. Unlike many other professions, hairdressers spend sustained, regular periods of time with clients in a non-judgmental, tactile, and personal setting. They serve as a constant presence in their clients' lives, often listening to their problems, sharing in their joys, and providing a sense of connection that may be lacking elsewhere.

This is more than just a job; it's a vital community service. Hairdressers often act as informal therapists, carrying the weight of their clients' emotional burdens—from personal challenges and difficult emotions to deep-seated feelings of loneliness and isolation. For many, a monthly salon appointment is one of their few avenues for social contact outside of work.

I argue that the government is overlooking an obvious and powerful solution by not including the hairdressing industry in its strategy. Hairdressers are already doing the work of the Tackling Loneliness Network, serving as a frontline for community well-being. By ignoring this profession, the government misses a crucial opportunity to leverage an existing infrastructure of compassionate, empathetic, and dedicated individuals who are already making a difference every single day.

I believes that the government's approach of "throwing money and re-touching" parts of society that don't see their communities every day is flawed. Instead of starting from scratch, the solution lies in empowering those who are already helping. I propose that hairdressers should be given the proper training and tools to effectively support the people they see daily.

Hairdressers are affectionately called "therapists," and there's a reason for that. By providing them with an understanding of mental health issues and effective communication strategies, we can enhance their ability to help clients navigate their feelings of loneliness. This approach would be more efficient, impactful, and would recognize the invaluable role that hairdressers already play in society. It's a call to action: acknowledge the silent work of hairdressers and give them the resources they need to save the world from loneliness, one haircut at a time.

Jamie Oliver is a familiar face on British television, having built a brand around his "mockney" charm and accessible cooking. He's a national treasure known for his culinary activism and business ventures. However, despite his public success, I’m taking a critical look at one particular aspect of his public image: his hair. The stylist who has built a successful career specialty in styling—a word I would emphasise, suggesting it is distinct from the more technical skill of haircutting, has been tasked with the difficult exercise of cutting his hair, an exercise most would find challenging.

The challenges of Jamie Oliver's hair. It's not a straightforward head of hair; it's "slippery." It's fine but dense and grows quickly. The most significant challenge, however, are the two cowlicks above his left eye, which can only be described as "tricky buggers." These issues require advanced training and practice, which I actively pursued to master difficult hair types and hairlines.

Looking at Oliver's hairstyles over the years, I’ve realised he's never really seemed fully comfortable with his hair. Early on, a dishevelled look suited his younger, thinner appearance. As he's aged, his hair has become more difficult to manage Now with.the stylist, lacking the proper cutting skills, has only been able to accommodate Oliver's requests for short, slicked-back styles, which were easier to manage but still looked awkward due to his cowlicks. The result is unflattering. He looks even puffier and more bloated his hair somehow super imposed onto his face.

But the situation has reached breaking point now that Oliver is growing his hair out. I’m reluctantly critical of the results because It's not the stylist’s fault. This is just another example of an underqualified individual profiting from a lack of high-level skill, a problem which is endemic in the industry. I’m frustrated. While I’ve dedicated my career to mastering the difficult art of haircutting, a "substandard" result is being showcased on national television, garnering thousands of pounds in pay.

Jamie Oliver is a "brilliant personality," but his hair has reached an impasse.

Ps. Jamie had recently had his haircut. It made the national news. It wasn’t by me, but I coined it months before it needed to happen. I could have done a better job.

Walk into a modern barbershop, and you’re met with an air of deliberate, almost aggressive, ruggedness: reclaimed wood, dim lighting, often a skull or a vintage motorbike accessory in the corner. They’re selling a performance of manhood—straight-up, no-nonsense. The barbershop often feeds an acceptable version of masculinity, an enclosed space where you must perform. You can’t be seen as too soft, too interested in aesthetics. But secretly, they’re still getting their fades and their beard line-ups done with the same attention to detail we offer in the salon; they’re just doing it under the guise of an "edgy" or "traditional" setting.

That's where the false masculinity really comes into play. It’s less about hair and more about a calculated image. It’s an odd dichotomy, the whole thing with barbershops versus salons. Honestly, it's about the performance of masculinity. Their approach is all about the stoic man-to-man exchange. They’re selling the idea that their establishment is where real men go for a haircut—a space free of the 'fuss' they associate with a salon.

In the salon, my space, it's all about comfort, about me making you feel good. When the blokes from the building sites or the boxing gym come in—the geezer types—they’re the most open. They're the first to compliment me. "You smell lovely, mate. Is that Issey Miyake?" They're tactile, they air-kiss, they talk about my clothes. They’re the ones who go on about being alpha male; they think their unquestioned straightness means they can be cuddly, even a bit... feminine in their appreciation of style. It’s an easy-going, if sometimes baffling, confidence.

The difference isn't the haircut; it's the courage to be vulnerable, or at least, the lack thereof. In the salon, we embrace the scent of Issey Miyake; in the barbershop, they’re still trying to mask their interest in it.

In terms of the work Forget the loud, buzzing simplicity of the barbershop. What happens in my chair is an entirely different discipline—it’s where dexterity meets true design.

Most men who flock to the barbershop have that ubiquitous, thick, easy hair—the kind that takes a clipper to a Number 2 fade and calls it a day. That’s a nominal cut, a cost-effective choice because, frankly, it’s largely devoid of any real skill. The clipper does the heavy lifting, relying on the client's dense, forgiving hair to mask any lack of finesse.

My male clientele, the ones who can't go to the barbers, come to me for a reason: their hair demands respect. They might have hair that's fine, thin, curly, or wildly unpredictable, often with tricky growth patterns or cowlicks that threaten to ruin the silhouette.

This is where the sheer dexterity of my training comes into play. It's an intimate, fluid dance with the strands. It starts with the scissor-over-comb technique, a rhythmic, almost meditative action that requires an entirely different level of precision than a guard-on-clipper cut.

The scissor work, I'm not just cutting length; I’m building internal structure. My hand positioning is constantly adapting, pivoting the comb—my temporary guide—and working the shears with minimal movement to achieve soft, seamless transitions that clippers simply can't replicate. It's the difference between blending paint with a roller and blending it with a fine brush. My texturizing and weight distribution is the invisible skill. With a flick of the wrist and specialized shears, I meticulously manage the hair's weight and density. I use point cutting to soften the ends, preventing that blunt, helmet-like look, and techniques like slide cutting to encourage movement and flow. This subtle work ensures the style looks fantastic when dry and falls perfectly into place with minimal product.

The goal isn't just a short haircut; it’s a bespoke silhouette.

A barber's uniform approach is a template; my work is a tailored suit. I am cutting to enhance cheekbones, disguise a receding hairline, or give volume where there is none. This is why the service commands a higher price—it’s not for the time, but for the cumulative years of skill that allow me to see the finished shape before the first strand is cut.

In short, I'm handling hair that tells the truth. It’s hair that requires skilful, manual graduation and an acute eye for detail. When these men leave my salon, they have a haircut that is as sophisticated and individual as they are, a style achieved through a precision that is worlds away from the buzz of a basic clipper cut.

That's where the false masculinity really comes into play. It’s less about hair and more about a calculated image. It’s an odd dichotomy, the whole thing with barbershops versus salons. Honestly, it's about the performance of masculinity. Their approach is all about the stoic man-to-man exchange. They’re selling the idea that their establishment is where real men go for a haircut—a space free of the 'fuss' they associate with a salon.

In the salon, my space, it's all about comfort, about me making you feel good. When the blokes from the building sites or the boxing gym come in—the geezer types—they’re the most open. They're the first to compliment me. "You smell lovely, mate. Is that Issey Miyake?" They're tactile, they air-kiss, they talk about my clothes. They’re the ones who go on about being alpha male; they think their unquestioned straightness means they can be cuddly, even a bit... feminine in their appreciation of style. It’s an easy-going, if sometimes baffling, confidence.

The difference isn't the haircut; it's the courage to be vulnerable, or at least, the lack thereof. In the salon, we embrace the scent of Issey Miyake; in the barbershop, they’re still trying to mask their interest in it.

In terms of the work Forget the loud, buzzing simplicity of the barbershop. What happens in my chair is an entirely different discipline—it’s where dexterity meets true design.

Most men who flock to the barbershop have that ubiquitous, thick, easy hair—the kind that takes a clipper to a Number 2 fade and calls it a day. That’s a nominal cut, a cost-effective choice because, frankly, it’s largely devoid of any real skill. The clipper does the heavy lifting, relying on the client's dense, forgiving hair to mask any lack of finesse.

My male clientele, the ones who can't go to the barbers, come to me for a reason: their hair demands respect. They might have hair that's fine, thin, curly, or wildly unpredictable, often with tricky growth patterns or cowlicks that threaten to ruin the silhouette.

This is where the sheer dexterity of my training comes into play. It's an intimate, fluid dance with the strands. It starts with the scissor-over-comb technique, a rhythmic, almost meditative action that requires an entirely different level of precision than a guard-on-clipper cut.

The scissor work, I'm not just cutting length; I’m building internal structure. My hand positioning is constantly adapting, pivoting the comb—my temporary guide—and working the shears with minimal movement to achieve soft, seamless transitions that clippers simply can't replicate. It's the difference between blending paint with a roller and blending it with a fine brush. My texturizing and weight distribution is the invisible skill. With a flick of the wrist and specialized shears, I meticulously manage the hair's weight and density. I use point cutting to soften the ends, preventing that blunt, helmet-like look, and techniques like slide cutting to encourage movement and flow. This subtle work ensures the style looks fantastic when dry and falls perfectly into place with minimal product.

The goal isn't just a short haircut; it’s a bespoke silhouette.

A barber's uniform approach is a template; my work is a tailored suit. I am cutting to enhance cheekbones, disguise a receding hairline, or give volume where there is none. This is why the service commands a higher price—it’s not for the time, but for the cumulative years of skill that allow me to see the finished shape before the first strand is cut.

In short, I'm handling hair that tells the truth. It’s hair that requires skilful, manual graduation and an acute eye for detail. When these men leave my salon, they have a haircut that is as sophisticated and individual as they are, a style achieved through a precision that is worlds away from the buzz of a basic clipper cut. 

A hairdresser arrived at the elegant home of a wealthy client, summoned to provide haircuts for the client and her two eleven-year-old children. The atmosphere was comfortable and familiar, but the practicalities of the profession remained ever-present. After setting up his tools in the sunlit living room, the hairdresser began with the client herself, crafting a precise cut tailored to her taste. The children were next, lively and wriggling in their seats, each requiring patience and skill to coax into stillness and ensure a stylish, even cut. Once the work was complete and the last strands had been swept away, the client prepared to pay. At this point, she raised an objection, her tone edged with disbelief. She questioned why she was being charged as much for her children’s haircuts as she was for her own, especially since, in her mind, children’s hair should cost less. This led to a candid discussion about the difficulty in pricing such personal services. For the hairdresser, the time, effort, and professional expertise required for a child’s haircut often match, or even surpass, those for an adult. Children can be restless or anxious, needing special reassurance and careful handling, which can make the task intricate and demanding. The hairdresser explained that, as a result, a child’s haircut is priced the same as an adult’s. Each service reflects not just the time spent, but the skill and adaptability involved qualities that don’t diminish simply because the client is young. Despite her wealth and her habitual expectation of preferential treatment, the client left the conversation with a new appreciation for the complexities behind the cost, even if she remained unconvinced about the final total on her bill.

‘He pulled his worn leather bag of shears, combs, and colour tubes out of his beaten-up bag. He was a home-visiting hairdresser in the affluent suburbs, a profession that, on the surface, seemed straightforward. You set your price, cover your costs, and earn a living. Yet, like the women who sought his services, the pricing in personal hairdressing services was anything but simple—it was a tangle of invisible factors, emotional needs, and economic realities.

His pricing model was a chaotic masterpiece reflecting these complexities: product cost, travel time, experience, location, and rent/utilities all went into the calculation. But then there was the unwritten complexity: the emotional fee.

Most of his clients were married women, comfortably settled in lives of financial freedom provided by their husbands. These were homes of manicured lawns and loveless marriages, where the air was thick with a thirst for nourishment that no amount of material luxury could quench. The husbands were often distant, overweight, and devoid of any real understanding about their roles—a backdrop of comfortable neglect. It should be so much simpler. It was a simple transaction. He dreams of transactional. But these women came to adore, worship, and want him, some without ever truly admitting the depth of their desire, an invisible intensity that had vanished from their married lives. They didn't realise that what they misunderstood, what nobody understood, is that it’s just the job, the job of a hairdresser. 

He was staring at his ceiling fan, the gentle, hypnotic whir the only thing holding the room's disparate noises at bay. He was tired. The exhaustion was a deep, bone-weary ache that wasn't just physical; it was the residue of countless hours spent in the intimacy of others' homes, absorbing their silences, their needs, their unarticulated cravings. He closed his eyes. The room was fading. The ceiling fan blades were warping, becoming a slow, spiralling vortex of tired grey. A fugue-like state was washing over him, a numb detachment from the clippers still sitting on his kitchen table, the scent of peroxide faintly clinging to his jacket. The drone of the fan morphed into the low thrum of a high-end sound system, the kind that whispers classical music in a waiting room. The walls around him materialised, no longer the paint-peeling rental he knew, but the polished, reassuring wood panels of a psychiatrist's office.

A screen on the wall flickered to life, showing a familiar scene, a transcript playing out in stark, white text against the blue glow, The sopranos, Tony wrestling with his own complicated feelings for a woman who held his vulnerability in her hands.

Her voice was cool, measured, intellectually sharp—the voice of Dr. Melfi, wasn't talking to Tony anymore; it was talking directly to him, talking as if she was communicating through him to his client.

‘I know this maybe very hard for you to swallow. But you’re only feeling this way because we’ve made such progress. I’ve been gentle. That’s my job. I listen. That’s what I do best.

The words echoed in the enclosed space of his dreaming mind, resonating with the very core of his profession. I've been gentle. That's my job. He saw his own hands, his tools, his curse.

Again, she spoke ‘I’ve been a broad sympathetic generic woman to you because that’s what this job calls for. You’ve made me all the things that are missing in your life. And in your marriage.,.

You’ve made me all the things that are missing... he felt a cold dread. That was it, the truth of the complexity of hairdressing. The price wasn't just for the skill; the surcharge was for the emotional labour, the act of being the nourishment these women, starved in their financially free cages, so desperately sought. He was the empty space they filled. The sympathetic ear. The gentle touch. The one who made them feel wanted. The one they mistakenly thought loved them and he resented it.

‘I’ve been gentle. That’s my job. I listen. That’s what I do best.’

Her words repeated, a mechanical mantra, stripping the romance from his accidental affairs, revealing the stark, transactional nature beneath. His attention wasn't desire; it was customer service. His intimacy was the unspoken, highly valued component of his expertise. He was professionally intimate and tragically empty. He was providing a life-affirming emotional illusion, and they were paying him handsomely for it.

He opened his eyes. The ceiling fan was still there, the blur slowing down. The fugue was lifting, but the cold clarity remained: created an illusion of love and singular connection. This intensity was just an essential part of the high-touch, personal service he provided, necessary to build the trust that kept him booked solid.

Dear Cathy,

I'm a senior hairdresser with twenty years of experience, now running my own private salon in West London. My client, Dorothy Byrne, suggested I write to you to provide a hair consultation, which is an unusual but welcome challenge for me.

The normal consultation process is an in-person exchange where I assess a client's hair, listen to their history, and understand their personality and style goals. Because I can't meet you, I will instead offer my professional opinion, what I would propose to do, and how I would do it.

From what I can see, your current graduated bob, while structured, lacks movement and doesn't fully flatter your features. The style is a common choice for your hair type due to its density, but its rigidity can make the hair look motionless and unattached to you. In my experience, this is often the reason stylists keep the shape the same over the years.

I believe your hair can do more for you. I propose a complete restyle with the goal of creating a younger, more flattering, and feminine look that aligns with your style. I would make it shorter in certain areas to emphasize the natural shape of your head and would ensure that the roots sit flat to the scalp, which I believe is the key to a successful restyle for your hair type.

The core of the haircut would be a shorter, graduated shape at the back, but I would also open up the sides to reveal your ears and highlight your cheekbones. The front would be softened to complement your bone structure, while the parting would remain the same for your comfort. My unique approach to cutting involves carving and distributing the hair's weight without using thinning scissors, ensuring the final result is soft, subtle, and balanced.

I understand this requires a significant leap of faith, as I cannot offer you reference images. The style I envision would be completely bespoke, tailored to your head shape, features, and hair type. I have the confidence and skill to create a short, feminine, and flattering cut that will change your look for the better.

As I work alone in my salon, the appointment would be private, without the distractions of other stylists or clients. This would allow me to take as much time as needed to properly execute the restyle, ensuring you feel confident in what I have done and that I can support you in maintaining the style in the future.

In the beginning, my life was anything but the calm of a wealthy West London enclave. I started at the bottom, in the unglamorous world of small-town Scotland, a place I had moved to after a turbulent boarding school experience. In Crieff, a small town in the heart of the Trossachs, my English background made me a target. I was the odd one out, an outsider in a world of fourteen-year-old alcoholics and misfits who saw me as an easy target. One evening, after a night out with a friend, a fight broke out at the local disco. My friend was struck with a pool cue, and in the ensuing chaos, I was sucker-punched by someone I had just moments before seen as an ally. This environment of casual violence and constant threat was the reason I wanted out.

With no clear plan, I enrolled in an acting course at Falkirk College. My only goal was to secure a student loan and escape. The course was a motley crew of dropouts and social outcasts, led by a group of equally jaded, soon-to-be-retired tutors. I had no interest in becoming an actor, but I was a natural performer. My entire life had been a performance—I was a chameleon, constantly adapting to fit in, using humour and charisma to make people like me. My need to be wanted, a deep-seated desire born from a neglected childhood, was a powerful motivator.

It was this very need that led me to my first salon in Glasgow. It was a city that, to my surprise, felt like home. My Scottish mother’s heritage suddenly felt real, a connection I’d never known. My first salon, run by a husband and wife, felt like the family I had always craved. Salons, for all their clichés, truly are like families—a blend of oddballs, outcasts, and gregarious personalities all working together. It was an inclusive, egalitarian environment that welcomed everyone regardless of their background.

My days as a salon assistant were a gruelling blur of twelve-hour shifts. I cleaned, swept, and smiled until my face hurt. It was a physically and mentally demanding job, but I was captivated. I watched the stylists like an artist in awe, mesmerized by their swagger and skill. They were the coolest people I had ever met, effortlessly sculpting hair with a level of detail and artistry that I found breathtaking.

I learned the unspoken rules of the salon family. A culture of tipping and mutual support existed beneath the surface. I saw stylists discreetly slip cash to assistants who helped them, a fair system based on loyalty and hard work. But I also saw the immense power stylists wielded. A single stylist could cripple a salon by leaving and taking their clients with them, a fact I witnessed firsthand when two top stylists left a major London salon, taking hundreds of clients with them.

The hairdressing industry, a global service that billions of people use regularly, has a significant and often overlooked impact on the environment. From water and energy consumption to chemical waste, many of the day-to-day practices in salons are detrimental to ecological health. For decades, these practices have remained largely unchanged, with the burden of innovation often falling on small, independent salons rather than large, corporate chains.

A 2018 study by the University of Southampton highlighted this issue, noting the general lack of engagement from hairdressers when asked about their environmental impact. In response, Denise Baden, one of the study's leaders, founded Eco Hair and Beauty, an organization dedicated to empowering hairdressers to understand their environmental footprint. The organization offers a certification that encourages professionals to adopt more sustainable practices. However, while resources and guidelines for sustainable practices exist, widespread adoption remains a challenge, particularly among larger industry players.

A critical look at the industry reveals several areas where change is both necessary and possible.

One of the most significant sources of waste in salons is the aluminium foil used for highlighting. A single salon can use hundreds of meters of foil each week, a number that becomes staggering when extrapolated across the thousands of hairdressers in a country. The chemicals on the used foil complicate the recycling process, requiring specialized handling. However, dedicated recycling services, such as one in New South Wales, Australia, have started to tackle this problem, demonstrating that with proper systems, this waste can be repurposed rather than sent to a landfill.

Another area ripe for change is the use of disposable plastic bottles for retail products like shampoo and conditioner. Following the example of the coffee industry, which has seen a shift toward reusable cups, hair salons could implement a similar system. Customers could purchase a product in a reusable container and then return to the salon for discounted refills. This model would not only reduce plastic waste but also encourage customer loyalty, as using the same product consistently over a period of three to six months is essential for achieving the best results. While there may be logistical hurdles to overcome, this simple idea has yet to even be seriously discussed within the mainstream industry.

Ultimately, for significant change to occur, the push must come from the top. The major corporations and salon chains that dominate the industry have the power and resources to implement large-scale sustainable practices. As it stands, being "eco-friendly" is still seen as a niche market rather than a necessary standard. The continued use of unsustainable practices causes irreversible damage to the environment. The industry must confront a fundamental question: just because a practice has been done for a long time, does it mean it should continue?

Stuart has been my client since the old days. He’s a photographer, a man who believed if you want to capture true emotion, you have to create it, no matter the cost. His methods were controversial, and for many, he pushed the envelope too far. His last archived image, a warning in the halls of learning, is of a bloodied model’s face—her lips swollen, her wounds disturbingly realistic, and her eyes holding a fear too forbidden to stare at, yet too intriguing to look away. That’s what he wanted: an image so uncomfortable, so unsettling, you couldn't tear yourself from it because it made you feel something. Whatever is said about Stuart, he had his moments, and if nothing else, he always committed to his art.

I think that’s how I justify keeping him as a client. He commits to his art the way I commit to what I do. It’s also possible I feel sorry for him, because I think I feel sorry for myself.

The thing is, I cut his hair better than anyone else. Stuart's hair requires more attention than most; even if I spent half the time I normally do, it would still be 70% better than any other hairdresser out there. His head shape is not kind, either. It’s flat at the back, and the combination of coarse, robust hair and a flat head shape means you must work hard to create movement. Too short, and the hair will stick perpendicular to the scalp, making him look ridiculous. Too long, and he’d look like a Shetland pony, his hair shapeless and heavy. It’s the type of hair that only a seasoned professional can cope with. This would be a nightmare for any other stylist in any salon.

So, I’m stuck with him. My ego and pride won’t allow me to mess it up. The haircut is art, and I could never bring myself to make it anything less than the best I could do. What’s the point of doing it otherwise?

I see Stuart at his studio; it’s easier that way. I don't want him turning up at the salon. The last time he did, he threatened one of my clients. When he's around people who aren't part of his world, his acute anxieties make him outwardly intolerant and aggressive. He's unhinged, a loose cannon. He is like a man who's never met anyone before. On top of that, he is tenacious. He doesn’t take no for an answer. There is no answer but to acquiesce. I find it easier and safer to meet his demands rather than negotiate with him. With Stuart, it’s a curse. I am one of the only people close enough to him to see him for what he is. And what he is, is ugly.

Going to see him at the studio, however, is an excuse to see Melanie, who doesn’t really work with him but somehow manages him. She has a submissiveness about her, a vacant leniency to even his most heinous behaviour which somehow helps him continue to work on a subsidiary level. Whatever is said about Stuart, his taste in women is sublime. Melanie is a woman of striking beauty, her presence captivating.

I get in early to chat with Melanie. She stands behind a large, round, altar-like desk the colour of whale skin. Bright, overly engineered lights fizz off her perfect skin, the shadows bouncing off her structure in the way only a model can. I walk in and she smiles warmly.

“He,” she says, pointing to the large steel door to her right, “is in a right one today.”

Suddenly, the large steel door flies open. The Incredible Hulk has burst through. It startles Melanie. I don't blink. Stuart strides in, wearing a tracksuit. He is a man in his late fifties, the last bastion of free thought, a man without cause, merely aiding his final epitaph.

Melanie stands at attention, a mechanical smile covering her face. He doesn’t even register she’s there. He looks right at her and directs his question to me instead.

“Where have you been?”

Before I can answer, he says to Melanie, “Man the desk, answer the phones, and put a proper smile on it,” and as he turns to walk away, his back turned to her, he says to me loudly, “Maximilian. It's haircut time.”

I follow him as he teeters from one leg to the other, obsessively running his hands through his dirty hair. His energy is pure madness, but behind the steel door, the room has a banal sense of calm. Its clinical cleanliness and pinpoint feng shui are no coincidence.

As he reaches his oxblood leather-topped partners' desk, at the far end of the room with a forged Basquiat hanging above him, I watch him stoop down to the drawer, move his head sharply from left to right, inhale deeply, fully arch backward, his neck tilted, his hair hanging down his back like chainmail, and let out a contented hum like he’s received medicine to cure pain. All the while, I can hear the low hum of news, traffic from outside, and what sounds like orchestral cymbals seeming to crescendo and diminish. I can also hear music—low, guttural echoes, monastic.

“Is that Jocelyn Pook?” I ask involuntarily, not expecting an answer. And I’m not disappointed.

I start to unpack my gear. Suddenly, he’s close to me.

“Tell me something, M-m-m-m-max,” he fakes a stutter when he’s being mischievous or just plain irritating. “Tell me something, are you involved with that girl?” He snorts mid-cough, pointing outside to Melanie.

“No,” I say promptly, trying to throw him off any scent that I find her attractive.

“Are you sure?” he says.

“Yeah,” I say, breathless, suddenly finding the implication boring.

I can smell the chemical on his lips. He leans into my ear and whispers, “She’s mine, okay, you little rat.” Then he starts laughing, moves right in front of me, and gestures with his finger, pushing it into a hole made with his other thumb and forefinger while still whispering he says, “If anyone’s going to get close to that woman, it’ll be me, do you hear me, Maximus?”

“Yeah, sure, okay, whatever,” I say, moving back from him, suffocated by his intensity.

Cocaine and Stuart don’t mix, but he'll calm down. Maybe we’ll be able to talk about something perfunctory. I long for something perfunctory.

Stuart sits in the captain's chair in front of the large window overlooking City Road. He fidgets awkwardly, adjusting himself in the seat. It’s uncomfortable. I look over at the desk, trying to see how much cocaine he’s got. A little sharpener for me might help me through the appointment. As I’m dampening down his hair, about to take my first section, he says, “Do you know about zombification?” he asks me calmly, like we’re talking about the weather.

“The story of King Da, the incarnation of the serpent, which is the eternal beginning, never ending, who took his pleasure mystically with a queen who was the rainbow patroness of the waters and of all bringing forth.”

“No, I don’t believe I have,” I say quietly, and then I get to work.

As if he hadn't heard me, he asks, "Do you serve the loa?"

“Not really…”

He cuts me off. “The Serpent and the Rainbow, a non-fiction book by Wade Davis. That's non-fiction, did you hear me?”

“Yeah.”

He cuts me off again. “Wade is an ethnobotanist, and he recounts his experiences in Haiti investigating the story of Clairvius Narcisse, who was allegedly poisoned, buried alive, and revived with a herbal brew. A zombie.”

“I see. Oh, yeah, wasn’t there a film…?”

He cuts me off. “Wes Craven directed it. During production in Haiti, the local government could not guarantee the crew's safety for the remainder of the shoot due to political strife and civic turmoil.”

“Right.”

In the silence, I tackle his long-overdue haircut. Because I only see him every three months, there is always a lot of work to do. I have to reshape it completely. When it’s wet, I begin by cutting about half of what I need to remove, and then when it’s dry, I use the sharpness at the very tip of the scissors to carve and slice through the hair. I use a super-fast slashing motion like I’m sculpting marble, periodically stopping to use my hands to check balance and integrity. There’s part of me that doesn’t quite know how I’ve adapted my skills to incorporate this kind of texturizing weight distribution technique. I’ve seen a few attempt it, but it’s not quite the same as my version. When I’m nearly finished, I run a wide-toothed comb through his hair from the nape right up to the crown, the hair billowing after itself, hazy and static. While this is happening, I take my seven-inch blade scissors and simultaneously cut into it as the hair is moving downward. What I’m looking for is to catch some internal hairs that might be carrying the faintest detail of weight, every little tweak essential for balance.

Halfway through, just as I’m about to style and apply product, he says, “Fix me a drink.”

I oblige. Before I can think of something to say, he says, “I want you to do something for me, something I should have done a long time ago, but my vanity stopped me. Ha, my own lousy quest for some unattainable youth.”

I’m not sure what he's on about, but then, I’m never really sure. He turns to face me and looks right through me, his eyes unnervingly sincere and steely, like he’s just come back from war.

“What?” I ask uneasily.

“I want you to get rid of that woman in Chelsea.”

It's obvious who he’s referring to. I play along. “I thought...?” I say, quizzing.

“You thought what?” he says aggressively.

His voice is now somewhat raised. He turns to look at me, water limply dripping from his chin, the combination smell of stale booze and Gucci Rush, his signature fragrance, a heady fusion. “Did you think I'd gone soft in the head? You think this is some kind of joke? Do you think I'm a fool, is that it?”

“Yeah,” I say, not realizing which part of the question I'm answering. Then, “Yeah,” I continue, trying to reassure him, and then nervously, I say, “Yeah. I mean, no. I mean. Yeah, she's a nuisance. But no, you’re not a fool.”

I take a deep breath, partially closing my eyes, hoping I’ve done enough for him to back off. He turns back to the window. I see his faint reflection, his face softening, his eyes glazing over. I know what’s coming: an apology.

“Sorry, Max. It’s been hard, you know?”

He’s telling me there’ll be no more disruptions. And then he says unprompted, "Corruption is the steel of lies."

With a long-drawn-out sigh, Stuart leans over toward the other side of the room. Before I can continue, my comb and scissors poised by his left ear, he has skipped over to the drinks cabinet like it’s Christmas Day.

As he’s making his drink, still with his back to me, his monologue, with all its twists and turns, suddenly seeps into my brain. I’m struggling to figure out why Melanie is suddenly on the hit list. Just as I am processing this information, it’s like Stuart is inside my brain, watching the film unfold. I think he can see my questions before I ask them. I hear the ice cubes kerplunk into his glass, and then, “You have a question?” he says condescendingly. And then a series of rhetorical questions. “Can I hear a question being formed?” “You don’t understand?” “Are you sure?” his voice starting to get louder and more agitated.

Just games.

In a quiet moment with Melanie later, after we have talked about the death of Stuart’s wife, I reveal all. It seems completely normal, lying there together to talk about him and her in the purple dusk of the small hours of a new day. Melanie turns on her side to reach for a cigarette, and her body looks tired, and she is once again inviting me to stay with her.

“This is the last time I’m coming to the studio to cut his hair,” I say.

“You said that last time,” Melanie says as I prepare to leave.

“You leaving?”

“Yeah, I think I am.”

My first client was a mother of two living just a few streets away. She was very interested in who I was, where I came from, and importantly, how long I intended to “hang around.” She was typical of the type of work I would be doing in the village: a middle-aged woman with reasonably good hair who either wanted to touch up her roots because she wasn’t ready to go grey yet or highlight her hair because she still wanted to be considered blonde. The local area dictated the kind of work I’d be doing in the salon.

I played it safe with her haircut, not wanting to push too hard on the first few visits. I wanted to give the sense that I was doing what she wanted, rather than what I thought was best. I realized, even with this first client, that I was already adopting a softer approach to my work. There were reasons for this. Not least, the last thing I wanted to do was push too hard creatively with someone I wasn’t completely convinced could handle it. Around here, my haircuts and colour work would never leave me. I’d see them all the time, watching them develop in front of my eyes for the better and, sometimes, for the worse. There was nowhere to hide. No more transient clients like I’d been used to in the big salons I worked for. This was a local community, and word travels fast. I’d rather be criticized for doing too little than too much.

During the appointment, she asked me, “Do you do men’s hair?”

“Yes,” I said.

“My husband desperately needs a haircut,” she said, adding, “He always gets it wrong.”

I asked her where he went to get a haircut, but I already knew it was some cheap barbershop. When I heard he paid eight pounds, I wondered why anyone would have a problem understanding why it might be terrible. It’s the same story I hear all the time. She then asked how much I charge, and when I told her, her eyes widened as if I had asked her to pay in gold bullion. But for men’s hairdressing, I wasn’t prepared to negotiate. I think she thought I might. Men’s haircuts should not be any cheaper than women’s, but I would have to wait to implement that kind of pricing structure. This is a debate about what is barbering and what is hairdressing.

It’s typical for men to think they only need to go to the barbershop when they need a haircut, and while I acknowledge that barbers and the barbering industry are highly skilled, it is nothing compared to the discipline of cutting men’s hair when you train as a hairdresser. Why is that? Barbers are proficient in the use of hair clippers, which I have always acknowledged as a skill, but the finer details of someone’s head shape are simply lost on your typical barber.

If you have a straightforward head shape and hair, then a barber might work for you. What is "straightforward"? For me, it is low-density hair that grows in a controllable way, attached to a head shape that is flattering, with ears that are proportionate to the size of the head and almost on the same level. But finding this kind of android, almost artificial aesthetic, is uncommon.

Clippers can be guided around any kind of head shape. You don’t have to understand the many complexities that are involved; it’s a uniform approach to hairdressing. When it comes to using scissors, it’s a secondary tool for barbers. As well as normal scissors, they also use thinning scissors, or thinning shears. These scissors are also used by hairdressers, although in slightly different ways. Barbers use them because they are unfamiliar with how to properly distribute or take weight out of the hair using regular scissors.

Thinning shears are scissors that have one blade with teeth and one blade without. These teeth are little grooves on the blade that will quickly take weight out of the hair. They alleviate excess weight, soften lines, and blend between sections. Each set of shears has a different number of teeth on the serrated blade. Smaller teeth are best used to blend and soften blunt lines created by layering, and wider teeth can be used for taking out weight from hair that is heavy and thick. Like all tools, they need to be used properly. They are used to texturize in conjunction with other techniques to take weight out of the hair and distribute it according to the feel, look, and shape of the haircut. Using them exclusively on men is much easier than on women. With men, you can use them all over the head shape; with women, you have to be very careful where and how you use them. Too high up the hair shaft and too close to the head shape, the hairs will naturally stick straight out.

My expertise relies heavily on the ability to understand the hair—how it moves, how it falls, and to have insight into what it will do when I haven’t styled it, which is something that a huge number of not just barbers, but hairdressers, fail to understand. This primarily comes with experience, but judgment also helps. It’s not enough that the haircut looks good in the moment that you have done it. For me, it has to look good when someone has been out drinking all night and slept on it strangely. I want them to be able to wash and style it and get close to what was done in the salon. There are too many hairdressers and barbers who either forget or simply don’t care about this vital part of cutting hair properly. Great haircuts last, and they grow out so that the shape continues to hold.

I didn’t bother telling her all this. What’s the point? It always feels that when you disclose the real complexity of hairdressing, people look at you and wonder, "What’s the point? Who really cares whether it’s perfect or not? After all, it’s just a haircut.” Men are the ones who seem to adopt this kind of ignorance more readily than women, but it’s not strictly their fault. There is still a stigma attached to men who want to spend time on their hair or even spend the appropriate amount of money on it. It comes from a few different areas, not least because we still live in a world where our genders are divided as protracted, linear identities—stereotypes of a bygone era that only serve to polarize our identities rather than bring them closer together.

While I blow-dried her hair, I drifted off and started thinking about my opinions. Maybe I should say something, because now, finally, this is how I think it should be. I’m no longer working for someone else. I should stand by what I believe. These are the concepts and reasons I want to have in my business. Why shouldn’t I spend the time to educate the clients who come into my business? Isn't this why I have my own business? This is my chance to do things the way I want them. By the time I had plucked up enough energy to open up to her about these pressing, almost inevitable ideas, she was paying and walking out the door. At least I was beginning the conversation in my own head; eventually, it would see the light of day, somehow.

I had a death today. For whatever reason, nearly all the clients that came in, gave me, shared with me, their experiences with death, near death. Jon, whom I hadn’t known for very long, maybe two years, sat and told me, that at the age of fifty-five, that three months ago he had trouble swallowing. He saw his GP they did the relative tests and they found a lump in his throat. He knew it wasn’t benign he said. In his American low-slung deep voice, he said

 ‘If there’s a lump in your throat or your stomach or your liver, you’re fucked , you’re gonna die from it. It just depends on how long they can stall it for.’ He sat there crossed legged, like we were discussing a football match. Then he followed up looking me directly in the eyes saying ‘I looked on the internet and it said that I had a year to live.’

I felt my face relaxing into a moronic pause, that I didn’t break out of, for our entire appointment together. I mean, what do I say to someone who had just disclosed that kind of information to me?. I said nothing. I knew there was more to come, he continued, occasionally looking at me, sometimes looking at his feet and rarely looking at me through the mirror in front of him.

‘I mean look man; the doctors don’t really know what they’re doing. It’s all just guess work and you’re part of that guess work and it’s important that you participate in their assessments and their decisions, because it affects what they will do. They try this and then they try that and if one thing works, then they ask ‘how did you find that?’ and if it wasn’t too bad then they do some more of what they’ve already done and on you go until you can get as much time out of it as possible. But no one really knows.’

I stayed quiet. I continued cutting his hair, like he was telling me about something impersonal like his job, or what he did at the weekend, or how his football team were doing in league one. I hoped he’d finished, but the hadn’t. I had a feeling this was just the beginning. He shifted his weight in the chair and then spoke slowly

‘The first time I heard that I had only a few years to live, that was the hardest bit and now that I’ve had time to realise what I’m up against, I’m ready to fight it with all I’ve got.’

There was fight in his words, steel, industry and belligerence, such strength and such bravery and I was humbled and the silence, even more deafening then it had been before, I really felt it. I wanted to contribute to the fight, to help him, but no sooner had I heard the words coming out of his mouth, did I remember that it was just words. ‘My kid has nearly grown up.’ He continued without a pause and then ‘This isn’t a tragedy. This is just something that when you get to the age I have, it’s something you have to be prepared for. I didn’t do anything different. I wouldn’t do anything different.’

I listened to my client Jon , he wasn’t someone who was a close friend and he told me that when he was frank about his condition, because that he said, was a coping mechanism, a problem shared, is a problem solved kind of a theory, but the whole conversation was really difficult to hear. He looked gaunt and sallow, his skin like bacon that was going on the turn, left disregarded, at the back of the fridge somewhere. His strength was spellbinding though, indomitable and not surprising for the person that I knew he was. His pragmatism, verging on comedic, he was almost blasé about his treatment. ‘They hook you up to a port and the feed you the liquor’ He said while I took in the rest of what he had said before. He continued

‘That goes on for about five hours, I just sit and read.’ He said it causally like he was describing wating on a bus to arrive. ‘I don’t feel pain’ He said quickly, like he had read my face, perhaps I’d winced at the idea of having a port into my chest. I asked him if he wanted to talk more about it and he said all he does is talk about it and I said well let’s not talk about it anymore then, and there was a momentary change of subject, and we did our best, both of us to talk about something else. But everything obviously in his life was now affected by the Cancer, so we ended up talking more about it. I didn’t wantto talk about it. He didn’t want to talk about it, but talk about we did.

It was a sunny afternoon, a bit too warm and I could see he was getting tired. I didn’t rush the haircut, I just made sure that I didn’t run over because I knew he still had to get home.

‘You know the thing is’ He said as I was about to finish ‘What choice have I got?. To roll over and die and just give up?, leave my family, knowing that I didn’t even try to fight?’

I had no answer. I just pursed my lips together, gently, solemnly, not really knowing what to say, but knowing he wasn’t looking for me to say anything at all. ‘Let’s not make any arrangements.’ I said like he was asking to book another appointment when he wasn’t.

‘You tell me when you’re ready, and I’ll make time ok?’ I said calmly. I was being as accommodating and thoughtful as I could be.  He smiled and I felt like my body was hollow, like there was nothing inside of me, because I knew the situation was so desperate.

As he left, the sun filled the doorway and I again told him to let me know whatever he needed, I’d be there, as best I could.

As I approach the middle of my life, I'm more aware than ever of life's fragility. The worries in my clients' eyes are no longer abstract; they are a reflection of my own fears. This newfound empathy has made me a better listener, a skill I've honed over two decades and believe is the most important a hairdresser can possess. I have learned that a truly successful hairdresser is not necessarily the best stylist, but the one who can connect with their clients on a genuine level.

When I finally hang up my scissors for good, I know I will miss the joy, fun, and emotional intimacy of these moments. I will look back on a career of relationships built on a unique exchange—a fragile, fleeting connection in the vastness of time. I am grateful to have been a part of my clients' stories, just as they have been a part of mine.

The news of Braddock’s death hit me like a sudden, brutal blow. It wasn’t just a patron who had vanished; it was a fixture, a living monument to the ten years i had spent shaping hair and a life in this peculiar village. Hearing it from Mick, over a pint in the smoky haze of the thatched pub, the shock made the world tilt. I felt the sickening dizziness of an unexpected void.

Braddock. Gone. Not in some grand, fittingly dramatic way, but felled by the banal, internal treachery of a twisted intestine and sepsis. The stark cruelty of it—the slow poisoning while he was thinking it was merely a hernia, fixable, recoverable. Life, slipping away while he waited for a diagnosis.

What anchored the shock, making it a truly visceral ache for me was the memory of our final interaction. For half a decade, Braddock had asked for the same haircut: a silvery mesh of cool, worked and coaxed into a modern, slightly-fifties style, effortlessly thrown back on his weathered, gaunt face. It was his emblem.

But that last night, with the soft yellow of the golden lamps providing a warm glow against the winter evening outside the salon window, Braddock had been in full flow. His introspection seemed final, a last, comprehensive speech. He spoke of sobriety—the clean break from alcohol and cocaine, the clarity that followed, the new way he saw his old friends. He spoke of growth, or the lack thereof, his lifetime of ‘right’ choices feeling like a faultlessness he despised.

Then, he’d smiled—that cheeky, world-weary smile—and said, “Let’s do something different.”

I took the scissors and cut it all off. Braddock’s signature hair, sacrificed for a change that felt profound, a literal shedding of the old, self-destructive man. It looked good, I remembered. And that was it. The last time. A final act of self-reconstruction just before his body failed him. The memory was a sharp, the final cut in anyone’s mind.

Walking back to the salon that night, after abruptly leaving the company of Mick and the others, I took the long way, feeling obligated to pass Braddock’s house. The lights were on; the car was outside. His three children were likely inside, still expecting him to turn up. The normalcy was a fresh wave of pain.

The group at the pub hadn't understood my reaction. Their faces, as I walked out, seemed to ask, Why on earth did you feel this way about someone from the pub? It was a question that underscores the loneliness of my profession. The world can’t comprehend the relationship a hairdresser has with his clients.

It was as usual a sudden, deep, unexpected loss. I had seen Braddock at his most vulnerable—unhappy, self-loathing, hiding in cocaine, contemptuous of the world while also craving its respect. Our bond was one built on silence, respect, and the ritual of change. I bore witness to his inner turmoil while physically altering his external presentation.

The cruelty of Braddock’s death lay in its timing. Just when he had chosen to change, to live differently, to find the growth he craved, he was erased.

At the funeral, in the quiet, immense solemnity of the church, I finally broke. I sat, listening to the eulogies delivered by other locals, men who knew the Braddock of the village, the schoolmate, the successful neighbour.

As the ceremony ended, "Going to California" by Led Zeppelin filled the space. In that moment, the finality, the unfairness, the pain Braddock must have felt, washed over Larini.

I listened to it all, the acoustic of the church allowing the sound to fill every single space. The words made so much more than they evr had before.

Spent my days with a woman unkind, Smoked my stuff and drank all my wine. Made up my mind to make a new start, Going to California with an aching in my heart. Someone told me there's a girl out there With love in her eyes and flowers in her hair.

Took my chances on a big jet plane, Never let 'em tell you that they're all the same. Oh, the sea was red and the sky was grey, Wondered how tomorrow could ever follow today. The mountains and the canyons start to tremble and shake, As the children of the Sun began to awake. 

Seems that the wrath of the Gods Got a punch on the nose and it started to flow; I think I might be sinking. Throw me a line if I reach it in time, I'll meet you up there where the path Runs straight and high.

To find a queen without a king; They say she plays guitar and cries and sings, La la la la. Ride a white mare in the footsteps of dawn, Tryin' to find a woman who's never, never, never been born. Standing on a hill in my mountain of dreams, Telling myself it's not as hard, hard, hard as it seems.

I am a man surrounded by ghosts—clients turned treacherous, life becoming tabloid fodder. I have freedom, but I’m alone. Yet, Braddock's death crystallized something about that solitude.

Everyone can rally to get it sorted, but everything can still be reduced to nothing.

Braddock, with his right schools, right job, right wife, and right dog—who had everything—was still taken.

Braddock’s final, conscious act—the decision to change his hair—remained an indelible mark on me. It was a testament to the human desire to rewrite one's narrative, a desire cruelly silenced. I knew, perhaps better than anyone what Braddock had been trying to become. And now, all that remained was the space he left behind, and the memory of the hair that had been cut off for a new life he would never get to live.

For too long, the world of hairdressing has been boxed into a narrow, often dismissive stereotype. It’s seen by many as a fall-back career, a hobby for the creatively inclined who, perhaps, weren't "academic" enough for other paths. But as this recent conversation reveals, that perspective is not only lazy but profoundly inaccurate. Hairdressing is, in reality, a highly skilled profession demanding a blend of artistry, technical mastery, and sharp business acumen.

This transcript captures an illuminating dialogue between two people. Their conversation serves as a rallying cry to dismantle outdated perceptions and present hairdressing as the viable, aspirational career it truly is.

- Keep going……It's lazy to think this, but I just.

- Yeah, it's a highly skilled job. You can be a straight. A straight person. You can be. You can. You know, you can be all different types of people and be a hairdresser. You don't have to be the stereotype that's in that narrative in the media and everywhere else. Everywhere. I mean, I never. Before I met you, I was the same. I thought all hairdressers were gay or they were blonde women or they were like. That's what I thought of hairdressing, because that's all people get told.

Well, there were people that just couldn't do well at school and they couldn't do anything else. You don't think about it being a choice because it's something really cool to actually do. You feel like it's the kind of job people do because they can't do anything else.

- Yeah

- And you've taught me it's completely not that. But I only know that because I'm with you. But you need to communicate that to people that don't understand that, because why would they?

- Yeah.

- That's really interesting.

- Yeah. That's the interesting bit about it.

- Yeah.

- That's the bit that people don't know anything about.

- Yeah. And that's the bit you want to tell people about.

- Yeah.

- You want to make it cool. You want to make hairdressing cool.

- Yeah.

- And viable and something to aspire to be. There's no aspiration about it at all from anybody. Like, if, you know, for the kind of person that thinks about going to university as a teenager, there's nothing aspirational about thinking about hairdressing.

- Yeah.

- But you want to smash that and you want to say, well, actually, no, it is. It is a highly skilled job.

- Yeah.

- And you can earn decent money on it and you can have freedom and you can have your own business and you can meet lots of really interesting people and travel. And travel. Yeah. And have flexibility.

- Yeah. Which is incredibly important.

- And be creative.

- And be creative.

- But it's a bit like when you work in, say, fashion, for example, where you have to be creative but you also have to have a business mind.

- Yeah.

- If you want to run your own business, run your own salon and you want to do it properly, you have to have a business head. You can't just be creative. It's not just about, you know, hair colour and chatting to people and da, da, da. It's about being business savvy, isn't it? If you want to do it properly.

- Yep. All of the Above. That’s exactly it. I just, as I said, I feel, you know, I just don't think it just doesn't feel right to be slagging it off.

- The book should be a love letter to hairdressing. And it should be basically all the amazing things that nobody thinks about, nobody understands and you know all about because you've lived it and breathed it, that’s you. Basically anybody that reads that book comes out thinking, oh, my God, you know what? I'd love to have done that. Yeah, I'd love to do that.

I wish I'd thought of that when I was younger, but I was never told about it. Or, you know, you want to inspire somebody that's maybe 16, 18, 19, to think, oh, my God, I actually think of that as something I might want to do now.

- You're so, you're so brilliant.

- Together. You don't want someone to read it and go, oh, here’s another bitchy hairdresser that moans about people. Or I hate hairdressers, because obviously when I go and tell me all my life story, they just about me behind.

- My back or, no, I can't do that, like.

- But who wants to? Who wants that actually? And then you just. You're doing a disservice to it again. You're not. You're not really. You love what you do.

- Yeah, I know, I know. I absolutely do.

- And you should be communicating that to people that don't know what the fuck it's all about. Think of all those young people that it could actually really change it. Think of what it's done in the food industry, for example. You know, 20, 30 years ago, nobody thought working in restaurants was cool. Think of, like, how certain people have made that a really cool.

- Well, no, I know. That's why I'm obsessed with.

-You need to do with this book about hairdresser. You need to sell it to people. It's like, this is what it can be.

- Yeah.

- And nobody tells you this. Nobody tells young men, especially young men, young straight men. Nobody tells them that this is something that actually could be interesting to them.

- I love the idea of the love letter. I love that. I just think that's so brilliant.

- Yeah, okay, babe, I'm smashing through all those stereotypes. How much do we both hate stereotypes?

- Yeah, because they're weak and they're lazy.

- How many times do we moan about every time you see a hairdresser on the TV. This needs to be about correction.

I had some time off. At least, that's what I told myself. In reality, I stayed home to look after the little one, so it wasn't exactly a break from work—just a change of venue. I ended up coming back to the salon a day earlier than planned, which is a common story when you run your own business. It's hard to turn down work just for one more day at home. Plus, the day I had originally planned to return, I was already fully booked, and a two-hour commute, followed by a twelve-hour workday, and another two-hour commute home, is finally beyond me.

Returning a day early, I walked right into a funk. My first two appointments were in a bad mood, and by proxy, it put me in one, too.

It's a grey afternoon outside the salon window. The street hums with life: Abdul from the Indian takeaway hauls heavy sacks of potatoes, Jane from the antique shop walks her lurcher, and tired-eyed addicts stumble out of the crack house across the street. But inside, there is calm.

Sebastian, a nine-year-old client, sits perfectly still as I begin to cut his hair. He's a quiet, polite kid, the perfect subject for my art. I get ready with a ritualistic series of stretches and deep breaths, holding my scissors and comb like a conductor preparing an orchestra. My commitment is absolute—each haircut is the last one I will ever do.

I work with precision, carving and slicing through his wet hair with the very tip of my scissors, sculpting with a quick, fast-slashing motion. I stop periodically to check the balance and integrity of the shape with my hands. Nearing the end, I dry his hair and use a wide-toothed comb to run through it from the nape to the crown. As the hair billows, I simultaneously cut into it with my seven-inch blade scissors, catching tiny, internal hairs to perfect the balance.

Just as the cut reaches perfection, the calm is shattered. A familiar sound begins from the flat above: a gentle, rhythmic humpf, humpf, humpf, followed by a squeak, squeak, squeak. I know this sound, but Sebastian doesn't. Embarrassed, I glance at the clock, hoping his mom, Sam, will arrive soon. The sounds intensify, building to a crescendo like Wagner's "Entry of the Gods into Valhalla." I rush to my phone to turn up the music but it's too late. The moans of the French couple upstairs, making love again in the afternoon, fill the silence.

I stand there, powerless and mortified, my hands sweaty. Sebastian looks up, his cheeks flushing pink with an innocent, wry smile. I cover his ears in a comedic gesture, unsure what else to do. After they finish, I hear one of them—presumably her—hurrying to the bathroom. I feel a mixture of frustration, embarrassment, and a flicker of jealousy. It's bad for business, especially since the old building's poor insulation means I can hear everything: their walking, talking, and even their arguments.

The first time this happened, it was with a fifty-five-year-old client, an ex-actress who took it in stride, but even she became uncomfortable as the sounds grew louder. We both ended up snickering like immature kids. It's an awkward situation I'm forced to navigate with every client, but I'm especially anxious about how I'll handle it with a new one.

I finish Sebastian's haircut. It's a masterpiece, a perfect blend of shape and movement. He looks at his reflection, a smile on his face, and it's enough to ease my frustration. His mom, Sam, had tried to bribe him to get his hair cut at a plush Mayfair salon to save her time, but he had adamantly refused, declaring, "I want to go to Marcus." He appreciates the quality of my work, and that's worth more than the half-price I charged on her platinum Amex card.

As he skips out into the darkness, I hear him faintly say, "Fank you." The feeling of being appreciated by this little boy is enough. The money, the noisy neighbours—none of it matters. He understands the quality of the work, and that is a reward in itself.

In the spring, while the blossoms spilled onto the pavement, swollen and full of colour, I opened my first business on these tree-lined streets in West London.

My first client today is a mother of two who lives just a few streets away from the salon. Even before she sits down, she questions me intensely about who I am, where I come from, and how long I intend to "hang around." She likes the salon, telling me it feels like a relaxed space. I'm pleased. That's what I want to hear—a perfect antidote to the hectic, uncomfortable environments that most salons are.

"And it's just you?" she asks, surprised.

"Yep, just me," I say confidently.

My salon seems to be a much-needed addition to this village community. The village has all the usual suspects: the butcher, the café, the restaurant, the newsagent, the hardware store, and, surprisingly, a Pilates studio. Right at the end of the parade of shops is my little salon. I know each of the owners; some I get on with, some I don't. The area is a thriving little hub, tucked in the middle of Zone 2 in West London.

I could tell she had been to a high-street chain salon. The colour was slapdash—clumsily woven highlights, chunky and misplaced, with no consideration for how fine her hair is. It was clearly the result of an inexperienced hairdresser. When I found out how much she paid, I silently gulped because it was way overpriced, but I wasn't surprised. She was none the wiser. She expected it to be done badly; she had no benchmark of quality to compare it to.

Mediocrity is at the heart of most high-street salons, where stylists are promoted to a senior level after only being in the game for five years. I trained for five years. I remember working in my first salon, training constantly. It took eight months to master how to section hair properly, ten months to cut a straight line. Clean sectioning is the very fabric of hairdressing; without it, there is no fundamental way of applying the craft correctly.

I've watched senior-level stylists section hair. Some of them, who are apparently high up in their profession, can't section hair at all. It's embarrassing, and they call themselves "senior-level stylists." Worse, I've worked in salons where these kinds of people are training assistants, and I'm standing there, watching the car crash unfold in front of my eyes, thinking, What kind of stylist is this assistant going to be if they have that kind of stylist training them? I know a great stylist by how they section hair—I can tell how good they are by their very first section. Training within salons, and training anywhere in this country for the most part, is a reflection of an unregulated industry that is failing its apprentices with substandard training.

Running my hands through her hair, I could tell the haircut also lacked any kind of understanding of balance or integrity. It was heavy at the back, layered with no uniformity, and combined with a botched colour job, it was a mess. I knew I could do it better. When I began the consultation, she watched how I moved around her, taking sections with my comb, holding up the hair, and explaining why the distribution of weight throughout the haircut was wrong. I could tell she was going to let me do whatever I thought was best.

Her hair is typical of the kind of work I'll be doing in the village, but it wasn't a big blow-dry, bouffant "power look" that is common around here, for women who glide around looking like they have nothing better to do. I'm never very comfortable around women like that or doing that kind of work.

I remember working for a salon that specialized in that kind of work in Holland Park. At the time, I had no money and was desperate for work, so I took the job. I was amazed at how vacuous it was. In that salon, I truly felt like "the help." Most of the women didn't even look at me while I was doing their hair, let alone engage with me. They might as well have had their noses in the air and their hands extended like they were royalty. One afternoon, on my lunch break, I was reading an article in the Evening Standard about high society, and it listed all the go-to salons that these high-end women might visit. My salon was listed. I looked around the staff room, embarrassed that I was a part of it somehow. At the bottom of the article, there was a cartoon drawn by a contributor that I thought was perfect for the salon. I cut it out and pinned it to the staff notice board; the quote read, "The higher your hair, the closer you are to God." I left the salon soon after.

She gave me carte blanche, but I played it safe with her colour and haircut. I didn’t want to push her too hard in the first few appointments. I'm doing what she wants; we can get to what I think later. It's respectful not to let your ego take over. With my experience over the years, I've realized that I’d rather be criticized for doing too little than too much.

This writing explores the core themes of authenticity, vulnerability, and the demands of creative work. The hairdresser, presents a defiant and raw perspective on his craft. He immediately challenges the reader, asserting his own importance and the value of his work with a bold, aggressive tone.

He dismisses the superficiality of social media and the "models and kids in their twenties," who he believes "don’t know anything." This suggests a strong sense of pride in his professional experience and a disdain for those who have not put in the time and effort he has. His life, he claims, is not just about the art, but also about the people who enable his creativity—a subtle acknowledgment of the deep human connections forged through his work.

The hairdresser's tone shifts between a defensive posture and an aggressive one, revealing a deep-seated vulnerability. He anticipates the reader's scepticism, confronting the unspoken question, "Who does this guy think he is?" His response is not a simple defence, but a counter-question: "How is this guy not making a show right now?" This rhetorical challenge is a direct plea for recognition and validation. He is not just selling an idea; he is selling himself, his life, and his hard-won knowledge.

The narrative also touches on the nature of truth and experience. He sees himself as a "first" in his field, someone who operates in the "trenches" and has "access to people's lives." This isn't a simple boast but a statement about the unique perspective his work has given him. The stories he has witnessed—tales of rock and roll, morality, tragedy, and life affirmation—are what make his work truly significant. He argues that this depth of experience gives him a credibility that no "creative with a pedestrian haircut" could ever possess.

The final lines of the piece, "I’m not here to sell you the idea. The idea is already in manifestation," encapsulate the author's unwavering conviction. He sees his project not as a future possibility but as a living, breathing reality. He is not seeking permission or approval; he is simply stating a fact, one he believes is undeniable because it is rooted in his 25 years of relentless work and his profound understanding of the human condition.

I looked around like someone was following me, scanning for anyone else up in the early hours of a Saturday morning. No one. Even the crack-heads across the street didn’t have their lights on. And in the basement flat underneath them, Paul and Keely were tucked up in bed. The Indian restaurant opposite was closed as usual; I’m not even sure it’s ever open.

Two skeletal bicycles, relics of a forgotten life, hung lifelessly from each other, desperate not to be taken away. Massimo, the Italian guy who lives above the salon, claims one of the bikes is his, but if you press him on when he might move it, he says something like, “Eees a good bike. I leave it ‘ere and they take-a-it-away the wheels.” Then he’ll add, “What-do-ya-want-a-me-to-do-a- take-a-it-away?” His face contorts like a wounded animal, as if I were the one who stole the wheels. I know that if I tell the council there’s a bike to be taken away—leaving his one because he clearly wants to keep it—the council will take his and not the other one. One bike is better looking than two, but with two, it’s impossible to use the bike stand.

I recently saw a guy trying desperately to lock up his bike despite the two others chained to the stand. His face said it all. I'd be just as pissed off. But he didn’t let it deter him. He wasn't a local; if he was, he’d either leave his bike at home or know that outside the cafe, just a few feet away, there are several other bike stands. In the end, he succeeded, but his bike was perpendicular to the pavement, making it difficult to walk by. It was a subjective art installation.

As I approached the salon’s shutter, I saw two small spurts of urine. I looked around for the culprit, fully aware it was Reilly, the neighborhood's little bastard. I’d like to get my hands on the little fucker, push his nose into his piss, and squeeze his neck hard enough for him to think twice about doing it again.

My first job back in the salon for the new year was to clean cat piss off the front of the shop and the shutter. Wasn’t it enough that he’d marked it once? Why twice? It's my understanding that he knows I hate him. That's why.

J’s appointment was number two. She was a recommendation from another client. Her hair, when she arrived for her first appointment, was so imbalanced that I was surprised when she told me where she’d been getting it done. Well, surprised is probably a lie; I wasn’t. Whoever had done it was limping their way through something they didn’t really understand in all its complexities. They were doing something that fulfilled all of its structural assets in a shapeless way that neither flattered her hair nor the face it was attached to. There was no understanding of her hair type, of suitability, of durability, or of what Juliet would be going through to adopt the style for herself every morning she woke up. All of this from a very senior stylist in a salon that is hailed as one of the elite in London, and by proxy, one of the best in the country. It really pisses me off when I see work like that because it tells me that unless your hair fits the extremely limited repertoire of haircuts that these salons and stylists hold in their arsenal, you are going to be sold a piss-poor product that helps no one, certainly not the person who would have most likely paid in excess of two hundred pounds for the privilege.

After a lengthy consultation and an even more lengthy and intensive haircut, I produced something that anyone in this country would have marvelled at. Something that transcended normal prognosis of skill and talent. I transcended the mediocrity with my vision and skill and provided her with everything she’d never had before, sending her out of the salon marvelling at a process that she had been lucky enough to be a part of. It was true art, true skill, and another example of my twenty-five years of experience and exceptional talent. I was gratified even further when she arrived for her second appointment. It was even more pleasing than our first because I saw it styled by her, worn by her, and its shape held extremely well, looking as if she had always had the haircut I gave her. In reality, of course, no one had ever given her that haircut. Was she pleased? I think you may be able to answer that for yourselves. And what does it matter, right? It’s just a haircut, isn’t it? Well, think to yourself about all the bad ones you may have had. You never forget the bad ones. Everyone remembers the bad ones.

Halfway through the appointment, I saw Reilly scamper quickly past the shop window. He must have used the two-seater outdoor furniture I put outside for clients who are early or if I’m running late. He looked frightfully jumpy, so I opened the door. He was on the small ledge next to the door to the adjoining house, looking wild-eyed. I looked to my left and saw a greyhound, spritely and fierce, looking in Reilly’s direction. Good, I thought. Finally, something you’ll back down from. Maybe that will take you down a few pegs. Because I’d interrupted our appointment, I felt it was only right to bring Duncan in on my running feud with Reilly. He was most amused.

Sally and I talked about the death penalty, after which we talked about the drug trade, followed by the death of a neighbour. Then I thanked her for the party rings she bought me as a Christmas present.

Andrew is a good guy. He is the perfect client for me, someone with difficult hair that most would find a challenge, if not impossible. Fed up with going to the barbers now, we are attempting to grow it out under my watchful expertise, skill, and eye. This is another one who will never go anywhere else. I wonder how many hairdressers can say that about their client list. The ones that I excel at are almost scared if I’m not around to do it. The look of worry in their eyes about the “what if” is both flattering and understandable.

Tom called me up an hour before his appointment on the off chance I’d be able to do it. It was worth it because I was available. He delivered some sad news. His mother-in-law, someone I'd met numerous times, died. After a diagnosis of ovarian cancer at the age of sixty-nine, she was dead within four months. He told me in reasonable detail about her last moments. One of them was particularly palpable. He said he took his three children to see her. Wracked with agony and pain, knowing she was on her way out, she mustered up enough energy to walk over to a chair by the window in the hospital she was in and sit upright for twenty minutes while she cuddled her grandchildren, drawing on every sinew of energy she had just so she could hold them for the last time. It was so powerfully communicated to me by Tom that I felt a lump in my throat.

When Tom left, I called Laura to tell her I loved her and that I loved the children. She could hear it in my voice, like I was going to prison. She could tell my over-emotion was uncharacteristic. And she asked me, due to my sporadic over-loving, "Are you ok?" I could have told her. I could have offloaded how I felt in order to somehow make me feel better. But the truth is I didn't want to. I didn't want to give her another tale of death and misery that I’d been a part of. What would it give to her? I’m not going to perpetuate the anxiety. Why should she have to hear about it? And that’s how my motivation will go. I’m not telling her anymore.

Rabbi, confidante, physiatrist, consigliere, oracle, therapist. We've all heard the cliché about hairdressers and barbers. We laugh about it, we joke about it—we expect it. It's a given that they will listen to us, empathize, console, and remember everything from past appointments so we can pick up right where we left off. This is all in addition to the actual job of cutting our hair.

It feels like a lot to ask of people who often carry the old-fashioned, unfair reputation of having little more than basic chat skills. But what is it really like for the hairdressers and barbers managing these profound, intense relationships?

In my twenty-year career, I feel I’ve gone way beyond what should be expected of a hairdresser. I’ve carried incredibly challenging issues, experienced egos, emotions, and feelings that have affected me deeply.

Most recently, a client—an octogenarian I’ve known for five years—disclosed that he’d been given six months to live. Estranged from his family, the only person he felt close enough to tell about his imminent prognosis was me. He is not the first, and he will not be the last.

Try to imagine how you would process that kind of information. Now, picture yourself maintaining the composure to turn around, greet your next client with a smile, and pretend you hadn’t heard it at all. The skill and mindful dexterity required to manage these emotions is difficult to describe and even more difficult to execute—especially when there is no framework for off-loading what you’ve just heard.

When I started hairdressing at the tender age of nineteen, it was an exciting, dynamic, and intoxicating world of creativity and expression. It had nothing to do with managing complex emotional relationships. That kind of client connection only comes later, once you’re qualified, working on the salon floor, and building your own base. But if I, the experienced stylists, the salon I worked for, and the industry at large knew this emotional labor was a core part of the job, why was there not the slightest conversation about it in my training?

On the flip side, some of the relationships I've developed with clients have evolved into deep friendships, people whom I consider a kind of extended family. Yet, even these dynamics are strange. As close as we become, our connection exists only within the confines of the appointment. After that, nothing is invested, and nothing is expected. It’s an intense period of closeness, followed by zero contact until the next booking. I don't know of any other relationship in my life that works with these unique mechanics.

As my career progressed, I became a kind of hermit within the industry, choosing to work completely on my own, seeing one client at a time. It's unorthodox, but it suits me. The one-to-one nature is, in fact, designed for closeness and transparency. The sheer irony is that I'm now reflecting on the candid nature of my work, a setup I designed myself. But I realize more than ever that I'm not the only one who must feel this way.

Perhaps it's a factor of getting older—I'm more resistant to both talking about who I am and hearing the deepest secrets of my clients. But it’s clear to me that something needs to change.

When you're young, you tend not to think much about the future. As you get older, the distance to the future shrinks. You see more of life's fragility and brutality. Eventually, an instinct kicks in: you realize you're halfway through, and that time is never coming back. It’s at this point that you really start thinking about who and how you want to spend your precious time.

Our working lives consume so much of that time. Most of us in professional life hear stories of trauma, of loss, of human struggle. But for a hairdresser or barber, the periodic update, the continued appointment—not just of the initial tragedy but the fallout month after month—is a weird yoke to bear. The suffering and pain of an individual on replay, with full effect, feels unfair.

For hairdressers and barbers across the country, our lack of training to manage our own mental health when we hear stories of such pain is like throwing someone into battle with papier-mâché weapons. We are ready to fight, but the tools we've been given don't work like they should.

The fact is, hairdressers and barbers are on the frontline, listening and participating in people’s lives. They are sometimes the central point of communication for lonely people—an epidemic that is more evident post-COVID than ever before. Our industry plays an extremely vital role in society. In my opinion, we are the unrecognized, undervalued lynchpins holding it all together.

The concept of hairdressers and barbers participating in our society's mental health is not a new one. Tom Chapman and his organisation, The Lions Barber Collective, have been champions of men's mental health in barbershops. His work, encouraging conversation to combat high suicide numbers in young men, is compelling and indisputably important. Industry organisations like the NHBF (National Hairdressers Federation) and Hairdressers Journal have also talked at length about these concerns.

But I’m not sure it has gone far enough. If we really want to reach all the people we are trying to help, let's first start by creating balanced environments for them to enter.

While Tom has championed men opening up in barbershops, he has presumed all men want to be there. The reality is, not all men are comfortable opening up in environments that are often overtly masculinized—the testosterone-fueled spaces with loud music and aesthetics fit for footballers or soldiers. If you don't feel comfortable there, where are you supposed to go?

Equally, most hair salons are overtly feminized, with gratuitous mirrors and lighting. In a world of acute sensitivity around gender and equality, isn't it time we realized that these establishments are here to serve everyone? Shouldn't we provide gender-neutral environments where both women and men feel happy and comfortable? We can all relate to an experience with a hairdresser or barber; it’s as universal as brushing your teeth.

Included within a radical reform of how we define gender within our salons, and perhaps most importantly, we also desperately need reform in the training of our professionals. We must have some kind of basic counselling qualification woven into the system—a mandatory requirement without which you cannot practice as a hairdresser.

This would empower our industry not only with the skills to manage clients' fears, beliefs, and anguish but to really start to help them. A framework would allow hairdressers to listen out for triggers that signify loneliness or deep-rooted problems. They could then advise, point clients in the direction of professional help, and potentially save lives.

Unlike therapy, the act of getting one’s hair done is usually a pleasurable, tactile experience. This factor lends itself to a perfect environment for people to relax and inevitably share something they might not share with their own social circle, and certainly not within the confines and rigidity of a therapist’s appointment. Not to mention the expense of seeing professional therapists—a pursuit too costly for most to attain.

So, let's empower our hairdressers and barbers with the skillset to truly help the people we are in contact with day in and day out. Let’s invest in the frontline of our industry that is already doing this essential work. We need to understand how vital a role our hairdressers and barbers play in our society.

It’s time to wake up.

Christmas time. I’m finally at home. It’s been an exhausting couple of weeks: children, families, and clients in their droves, all fighting for appointments, spewing into the salon for their holiday haircuts before a trip abroad for some privileged winter sun.

The salon is shut, its doors closed for the final time this year, and I’m home, recovering from the melee of madness that is the Christmas season in the hair industry. My legs finally feel like they are attached to my body. My back doesn’t hurt, I don’t need morning painkillers to get through the day, and most importantly, I don’t have to provide the energy-sapping, mind-consuming performance of engaging in conversation with someone new every hour for twelve hours straight. Now, I am just a dad, my working life far, far away. And if I’m honest, by December, I’ve had enough.

Today all is quiet. Lunch has been devoured, the kitchen cleaned, and there is that lovely moment of calm when everything feels done and everyone has earned a rest on the couch. Here I am, stretched out, children at my feet, a little full from having eaten too much, and about three-quarters of the way through a bottle of 2004 St. Emilion. I’m feeling good, satisfied, if a little sozzled. I flick on the TV.

“Daddy, Daddy, it’s The Wrong Trousers!” says my eldest as I’m flipping channels. “Can we watch it, please?”

“Sure, of course we can,” I say. It was actually Shaun the Sheep, not The Wrong Trousers, but my eight-year-old was right to mistake it, as the Aardman collective has a brilliant, distinctive style.

We settle in. I’m sort of paying attention, but I’m much more enjoying being with him and being at home. I can’t remember the storyline exactly, but at some point, the protagonist, Shaun, goes into a hair salon.

Naturally, it catches my eye. As the camera follows the sheep into the salon and pans around, it shows two men. One is standing in front of a mirror, the other folding towels. Both are wearing crop tops, earrings, and flip-flops. About a second later, they welcome Shaun in, pirouetting on tiptoes, cooing across the salon with limp wrists and air kisses. I can feel my back tighten, my lips purse, because I’m immediately uncomfortable.

When they realise that Shaun in his madness thinks that one of their clints is a sheep and proceeds to sheer him in front of aghast customers and alike, they shriek effeminately and then cower in an exaggerated, threatened manner, whilst simultaneously flicking their hair back—always with one eye on the mirror to check their style is correct. The sassy interactions, the flighty sighs, the exaggerated glances—it’s like watching an offensive, lazy parody. It becomes increasingly obvious that this is what Aardman thinks a hair salon is like, and, more importantly, what male hairdressers are like.

I sigh, waiting for my son, Vincent, to notice and say something.

Ten minutes later, still watching the scene unfold, he says, “You’re a hairdresser, Daddy.”

“Yeah, that’s me,” I say, already defeated and perplexed by what I’ve just witnessed.

Then he says, “But you don’t look like that, Daddy!” and then, “You’re not like that!”

“No, I’m not,” I say quickly, trying to convey that I’m unaffected by the shameless imagery, but I am. I’m irritated, confused, and my perfect afternoon with my lovely boy has been momentarily ruined. I look at this innocent eight-year-old and pause.

You could say it’s just a cartoon, that kids won’t notice. I could leave it, pretend it doesn’t matter. But as I contemplate how he might perceive what he’s seen, it dawns on me that it’s not okay. It’s the most subtle, subversive imagery that kids pick up on the most. It’s indelible.

Ask yourself: If you were in the same position—a hairdresser watching an animation with your eight-year-old child—how would you explain why the man on the screen looks and acts the way he does?

I decide at that moment that I need to elaborate, to offer him an explanation as balanced as possible to help him understand why the film would portray his daddy’s profession this way.

I start running through all the possible scenarios in my head. I don’t want to have a conversation with him about orientation or sexuality, not just yet. He’s eight. While I accept that we should gently educate our children about all the wonderful differences in our society, when it comes to offensive stereotypes about people in a certain industry, I think it’s gone too far.

Also, why should gay men be portrayed in this way? Why is it acceptable for them to have this image when most of the gay men I’ve worked with or know personally are nothing like the image this cartoon has portrayed? Ironically, all the men who are the most successful in hairdressing—the big names, the award winners, the most decorated in our industry—are all heterosexual.

Perhaps this is what Aardman is trying to do? Have they created a platform for discussion? I think not.

So where on earth did the Aardman collective deem it appropriate to portray men in salons in this way? Imagine feeding this kind of narrative to an eight-year-old. What if he’s gay? If he’s nothing like the stereotype being depicted, he’ll feel even more conscious about who he is, thinking he has to conform to that image because that’s how gay people look and act.

As a community, we are hyper-sensitive about the just and balanced depiction of our minorities. There are vehement, apoplectic exchanges on social media over the slightest infraction of insensitivity regarding LGBTQ+ issues. And yet, in a children’s animation—the place where there should be unanimous effort made for an egalitarian approach to the understanding of all people—this kind of offensive stereotyping is allowed. It was signed off and accepted by countless producers and team members who considered it completely legitimate.

Gay men and women have every right to be considered the same as everyone else. Loose, lazy, offensive stereotypes have no place in our free democratic society, especially if we want to get it right with the future. It’s the education of our children that is the only way to change the status quo, because they are the future.

It’s the same as the gender profiling that happens in our society from the moment children enter primary school. The thousands of books for boys about trains, football, and engineering, while the girls’ books are all about nursing, flowers, or dolls. It’s not just books; the same thing happens in clothing, food manufacturing, and advertising. They are all invested in a protracted profiling whose only purpose is to perpetuate an inaccurate ideology about preconceived ideas of what boys and girls should be interested in.

While I totally accept that girls or boys may well be into the things I have described, shouldn’t we be at a point in our culture where it’s okay for them to decide what they like as a choice, rather than being spoon-fed a narrative that only serves to keep boys and men in certain roles, and girls and women in others? No wonder we have such inequality for women in the workplace when society has already conditioned them to feel the way we have organised them to feel.

It starts even earlier than primary school. I remember when we went to register my youngest’s birth at the local council office. We were offered, at a cost, a laminated copy of the birth certificate. I thought it would be nice to have, that was before I looked up on the wall behind the registrar to see the two options: one was blue for the boys, and one was pink for the girls. Haven’t we moved past this yet? Needless to say, I didn’t bother explaining to the two employees why I’d changed my mind; they wouldn’t have understood my problem.

Shaun The Sheep isn’t the only culprit I’ve noticed. I remember watching The Simpsons—an episode where it depicted hairdressers in a Springfield salon. These hairdressers weren’t even part of the storyline or the joke, but they were casually depicted as limp-wristed, effeminate Puerto Ricans wearing gold hot pants.

Where does this casual xenophobia come from, and why is it so accepted within mainstream society?

Part of it, I guess, comes from the fact that the industry is eighty per cent women. The twisted logic follows: if a man wants to work in an industry that is heavily dominated by women, then he must be gay. Also, I think the misconception is that hairdressing is easy, that it isn’t a very physically demanding job, that the hairdressers are pampered like their clients, that they just stand around and chat. Nothing could be further from the truth. Forget the misconceptions—hairdressing is hard work.

I’ve stood mute, waiting for someone to call out this detritus and negative stereotyping, and yet, unbelievably, nobody has, ever.

I looked into my boy’s deep brown eyes, a line of crisps running from his chin down to the bowl resting on his tummy like a mini wall of China and simply said, ‘there’s nowt queer as folk’

‘What’s queer daddy?’ he asked me back quickly.