Where Not to Get a Haircut

I was in dire need of a haircut. Not that there was much hair on my head in the first place these days. It’s just that it had started to get a bit unruly and was starting to grow in awkward patches on my head. Sort of a cross between a Manchu-period Wushu master and Marouane Fellaini. In short, a pretty horrible combination.

So, off I went to the local barber. This particular place wasn’t a favourite or anything, it was just convenient. While the wife and kids went about the shopping centre doing their own thing, I could get myself a haircut, a friendly chat and some glimpses of football on the small TV hanging on the corner of the shop.

Normally there’d be a long queue for a haircut but if you ever wanted a good gauge to see how things are really going with the economy, your local barber would give a fairly good indication - it was empty. Within a few seconds I had my jacket off and was comfortably seated.

Halfway through my haircut a boy popped in. Seeing that the only other barber in the place was working on me, the Boss himself decided to attend to the boy.

Things are looking these days, aren’t they?

Curious as to what the Boss was referring to, I had a second look at the boy seated a few chairs away from me. He was wearing Liverpool’s 2009/2010 away jersey.

Ummm...yeah...

The boy answered meekly but before he could continue, the Boss continued.

The club will definitely do well, now. They’ve got Roy Hodgson. He’s a good manager.

Ah, looks like the Boss is a bit of an optimist. Pre-season’s not even officially over yet an already the club has had a dream start, eh? Hodgson is a good manager and no amount of media spin could have earned him at least that accolade.

It’s about time the club got itself a proper manager. An English one. Yeah, put back the English in the English Premier League.

What? Yes, let's replace the manager. Not because he wasn't good but because his passport was different. There's a good idea. It got worse from then on though.

It’s time these...

The Boss took a glance around the room. I caught a corner of his eye looking at this one Asian customer, hoping I wasn’t listening or better still, couldn’t even comprehend English. I looked away and pretended to be looking at the repeat of Man City v. Inter game that was playing on the telly, hoping he didn’t say what I thought he was about to say.

...foreigners got out and stopped messing with English clubs.

There you go. He half-whispered it anyway. I bit my tongue. It wasn’t in my nature to do so but I did it anyway. I thought it was the safe thing to do at the time considering I had a pair of scissors and a few other sharp objects around my head.

Yes, get the foreigners out. Why stop at one Spanish fella. There’s a whole bunch still at the club. Yes, let’s get rid of Torres, let’s get rid of Reina, Agger, Skrtel and everyone else that’s not English. After all, they are ruining this club aren’t they? But why stop there? Let’s re-write history and change Bill Shankly’s and Kenny Dalglish’s nationalities to a more acceptable one just a bit south of the border where they come from.

I don't know what happened next but I must’ve sent out some sort of subliminal message to the Boss as he kept his mouth shut for the next few moments. A few snips later, I was done. I popped out of my chair, grabbed my jacket, paid for my haircut and headed straight for the door.

Thank you, Sir...

I heard the Boss say as I walked out of the shop. Sir, my foot. If he wants foreigners out so much, this one Johnny Foreigner was on his way out alright. I got out and promised myself never to come back to his place. Ever.