As a young man in my twenties, I lived in a flat off the Finchley Road in North London. While I was tempted to call it Hampstead adjacent, it was actually Golders Green. I usually got my hair cut at one of the smart barbers in central London like Trumper's but occasionally I couldn't make it into central London--or couldn't afford it--so I sought out a local barbershop, right at Golders Green Station. Straight out of the 1950s, it was a storefront with a plate glass window, striped pole, and three red leather seats. Nowadays, the hipsters would have discovered it and made it trendy, but back then it was just an old school, Italian-owned barbershop largely patronized by old fogies--perfect, in other words. In those days, I wore my straight, dark hair very short on the back and sides, long on the top and always slicked back in what I thought was a rakish, old Hollywood look that complemented my bespoke suits that I would buy for a few pounds at Oxfam.
As I pushed my way into the shop, I noticed that Dean Martin was playing and that the mirrored walls were covered with glossy photographs of men sporting haircuts twenty years out of date. One of the three chairs was empty, the middle chair had a customer in it, a lady barber busily cutting his hair, and the third was empty, but standing next to it was a barrel-chested older man in a white smock which did its best to hide his large belly. The swarthy man was probably in his fifties, his coarse hair peppered with grey. Seeing a customer, he waved me over with a flourish and assured me that yes, he could certainly fit a fine-looking young man like me in without an appointment. He spoke in an odd mix of Italian accented Cockney, introduced himself as Mario and manhandled me into the barber chair.
