I wouldn’t be the best at beard maintenance. Every morning, I cut a few hairs that refuse to do anything but stand horizontally or vertically out from my face. Sometimes, it’s more than a few. Sometimes I look like I’ve been receiving mild electric shocks while I was asleep. In the bathroom I have a little beard brush yoke and a dust buster which I bought to get rid of the detritus and to keep my marriage stable: hairs are a contentious issue.
But over time, the beard will take on an odd shape and I’ll start to look like that cliched image of a crazy old fellah who has been trapped alone on a desert island for years. When it gets to that stage, I go for a beard trim.
It always strikes me as somewhat miraculous that a barber, using different-sized buzzing razors, can transform the unruly mess on my chin into something neat and pretty presentable; and do it while having shouted conversations with some of the other people there.
I tend not to engage in this talk because, obviously, I have to keep my chin still, but also because – in my experience – the conversations are almost exclusively about football, about which I have an almost total ignorance. Happily, no barber has ever asked me about it. (I must give out non-football vibes.)
Barber shops are very male spaces. Yet while football is the lingua franca, an entry method for serious discussions or gentle joshing, it also seems to be a way of comforting the clients. Because the clients are vulnerable: sitting powerless while another man deploys razor-sharp implements around them. The clients also have to reveal thoughts about their own appearance: how they want their hair or beard, or both, to appear to the outside world. In any other situation, talking about this kind of thing might make some men uncomfortable.
They might not seem to be obviously connected, but barber shops make me think of record shops. I don’t mean the big high-street multiples flogging T-shirts, games and over-priced vinyl reissues of Dark Side of the Moon and Rumours, but the small independent outlets, where at least half the stock is second-hand, and it’s taken on trust that these records will be in playable condition. And they always are. These kinds of places are all over country. For my job, I travel a bit, and it’s become a habit for me to visit the good ones in various towns and cities. I have a list of favourites.
These, too, are male spaces. Now, the owners of these shops may well object to that depiction: they’ll argue that their clientele consists of all ages and genders. Which is true, to an extent. But I would guess that their core cohort of customers is made up of men of a certain age. Men like me. The proprietors of these shops – in my experience – are all men like me.
But that’s not a bad thing. I go in and have a bit of a dig around. Sometimes, the owner is having a conversation with a customer. It’s usually, though not exclusively, about music. If I opt to buy something, the owner may well have a short chat with me as well. (I must give out pro-music vibes.)
[ ‘That’s a Tesla,’ my daughter said. ‘We don’t like them’Opens in new window ]
And I always find the experience comforting. The phrase “male space” can come with all sorts of negative connotations, and for all sorts of justifiable reasons. Yet that’s not always the case.
Young men are starved of role models. And the few who wish to promote themselves as exemplars all too often want to define “maleness” as something that is purely oppositional: being a man means being angry at the shape of the world. But there are alternatives. Go for a haircut, buy a few records. You could do a lot worse.
