Getting a haircut

The ancient shop in a gloomy arcade where I get my hair cut every couple of months is a piece of history cut out of the 1950s, like a black and white magazine clipping, turning yellow around the edges. The two old Italian gents who take turns to crop my hair with their #3 and #2 grade clippers (I’ve been warned off the #1, told severely it would make me look like a Marine) wear ties and smell faintly of tobacco. They have lived in Canberra since post-war migrants from the European war built the Snowy Mountains Scheme and they’ve cut the hair of the best of them.

There never seem to be many people in the shop. I suspect they are still wandering around trying to find it in its hidden time warp around the corner from the hurrying 21st century. I’m sure the tiles on the floor contain asbestos and the ‘barbicide’ liquid with the combs and scissors floating in the glass jar on the bench in front of me is probably still killing germs from the 1950s. All the customers, including me, are old and we exchange meaningful conversation with the gents about weather and cars and how easy life is nowadays.

I’m convinced that one day I’ll hurry down for my haircut and find the shop gone, as though a rift in the universe has sealed and the wormhole in time and space connecting me to the 1950s will have closed forever.