With a cancelled appointment and hair just beginning to
bother the ears, I bowl into the barbers without checking the clientele through
the window. Too late, I see there’s a bench full of customers waiting and worse
still, one of them is a rival estate agent. Spotting my indecision and not
wanting to lose a punter, the owner gives me a smile, worse still remembers my
name and beckons me to sit with an optimistic.
‘Wait won’t be long.’
It’s a good skill with the name, one I wish I could
master, but I recall properties not people after all this time. The barber
knows I don’t like to discuss business when in the chair, not least because
he’s tried to move several times over the years and you don’t want to upset a
man with a cut-throat razor in his hand and an interest in how much his home
has gone up in value in the last twelve months.
The luxuriantly haired oily operator from the opposition
outfit shifts up grudgingly and equally reluctantly I park my backside next to
him. He’s reading a free copy of The Daily Mail, so his political persuasion is
fairly clear. ‘Alright?’ I ask with no interest in the answer, unless his
office is about to close.
‘Can’t complain.’ He replies, before adding
unnecessarily. ‘On a bit of a roll at the moment actually.’ So he’s a liar as
well as being freakishly hirsute.
I check out the other customers. The dusty bloke with
three days stubble and workman’s boots is scanning The Sun without any apparent
embarrassment, and the hippyish mid-fifties man with grey hair, a goatee and an
absurd ponytail, is glued to The Guardian. All political persuasions catered
for by the astute owner. Just hope nobody wants to talk property. Fat chance.
‘You short on stock too?’ Asks my rival with the
plentiful locks. There was a time when my hair had that sort of lustre and grew
thick and dark. Too many sales falling through and too many targets being
ramped up annually have taken their toll. Now when I give my instructions to
the trimmer it’s, ‘just a tidy up ’ and a hopeful, ‘and leave some length on
the top please.’ Not much they can do about the grey and I steadfastly refuse
to dye it like those fading lotharios trying to hang on to their second Thai
wife.
‘We’re doing okay.’ I fib. It’s a tradition amongst sales
people to over-inflate their performance and it’s not about to stop when
quizzed in public.
‘You two alright to sit next to each other.’ Jokes the
barber as he brushes down his just finished customer and the man tips him more
than I usually do. I frown and reconsider any sort of gratuity this time. He
remembers my name but not always my preferences.
‘Sorry.’ Says the barber ushering in the man with the
ponytail who it turns out only wants his absurd facial hair trimmed. ‘I forgot
you estate agents like to keep a low profile out of the office.’ There’s a
rustle of papers being folded and the whole shop looks at the pair of us with
ill-disguised distaste.
‘Go on then you lot.’ Challenges the Sun reader curtly.
‘Tell us why people like me are priced out of the market.’
‘Market forces mate.’ Says my rival clambering into
another just vacated chair and getting the young, well-endowed girl hairdresser
all the blokes like to use. Not sure if she means to keep brushing you with her
tits when she leans in but she gets good tips, and at the end of the day we’re
all selling something – unless you’re a civil servant.
I realise everyone is looking at me, now my rival is
occupied with whispering his preferences to the girl.
‘Supply and demand tends to drive the market.’ I venture,
adding. ‘That and availability of funding.’
‘Too many bloody immigrants and freeloaders.’ Interjects
a well-spoken man clutching on to The Telegraph and an image of a country that
no longer exists. The Sun man wades in, the hippy with the trimmed beard adds
his opinion and I wish I were bald.
Still itching now.
-----
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