Clipper of the Yard

I miss the days when the rather fabulous Martin Holmes was my stylist. Now that I am reduced to infrequent haircuts at random locations, whenever I visit a barber, my luscious glory exists in a state akin to quantum uncertainty. It could go from flowing uncontrollably to the patchy static buzz of bughouse patient in a few short minutes.

Having reached the length where my collar had long since disappeared, I decided today that the mane needed taming. The nearest place for a cut at the moment I reached this verdict was Clipper of the Yard. Nestled next to New Scotland Yard in Dacre Street, it is firmly established as the unofficial hairdresser to the Metropolitan Police HQ. It probably deserves to have a Met warrant, its window emblazoned with the same design used on the constantly rotating sign of its neighbour.

Wander in with boots, dark trousers and a blue shirt and the other patrons tend to assume you are a copper. Banter about transfers and the latest stuff-up by the CPS or SCD8 can come in your direction. You cannot really expect less of a place when its obligatory celebrity endorsement photo on the wall is of Leonard ‘Nipper of the Yard’ Read.

Clipper of the Yard has an undeniable feel of the early eighties; all black, white and chrome with leather sofas. The sexist nudge-nudge wink-wink chat between coppers when the stylists are preoccupied is avatism perfectly in keeping with the décor. At any given moment you expect Gene Hunt in his Ashes To Ashes incarnation to open the door, sit beside you and start telling you how he only comes in hear to have his: “Bonce banged by the Polish bird’s boobs.”

My few minutes in the chair are functional. I do not feel like chatting. There is no energy in me for small talk. Directions are given and inches of hair come away. First my collar, then my ears reappear. Tonsorial archaeology. I walk away, the proud owner of a police haircut.

"Blue Eyes are Inherently Evil"

When I lived in Essex, I had the luxury of having my hair cut by Martyn Holmes. These days, wayward genius in the luscious glory department is not found at the end of the road. Now I just take what is available.

The first time I went into Salon Babylon, the place experienced a Slaughtered Lamb moment. As I stepped through the threshold, the typical buzz you expect of a Near Eastern barbershop stopped. Banter halted before expected putdowns could come. The whirr of clippers ceased. A barber, mid-shave, turned to stare at me, cutthroat open in one hand as all other eyes in the shop followed him.

For 15 minutes no one spoke. When my turn in the chair came I struggled to explain what I wanted. The barber had attitude and little English, while I had less than a dozen words of Arabic. It has to be said: “Chicken” and “Don’t shoot” are not much use when you want to convey: “Same basic style mate, just a couple of inches shorter.”

As I was having my haircut, one customer came up to me and said: “In my country, blue eyes are evil. Blue eyes are inherently evil. You are inherently evil.” There is not a lot you can say to that except: “Thanks, I will bear that in mind.”

I was meant to be intimidated. Uncomfortable. Go and do not return. However, the haircut was cheap and good. Salon Babylon is on my extended patch and I do not tolerate no-go zones. You cannot expect a hoodoo city if you are not prepared to keep coming back until someone gets that burning esfand is not the response to all blue eyes. There may be an angel in every leaf and seed, but I am not the devil you need to keep seventy houses distant.

Six months on and progress is being made. Today when I enter, no one stops talking. Today, I even get my first barber banter. We manage a few jokes about why I have never been in for a shave and when I am told: “Your beard is too long for a real man” there is no knife edge in the words. Ol’ blue eyes will be back in a fortnight for a shave and I am confident no one will be burning esfand.