1 The Disillusioned Parkie
The lamp post was rooted approximately twelve feet to the left of the Barbershop on the opposite side of the narrow street, creating a perfect angle for Alfie to peer unnoticed into the shop.
It was mid-afternoon and the intense, infrequent summer sun had manoeuvred its way across the sky until its rays filtered down from the heavens and through the large solitary shop window upon which had been scribed ‘Rodney’s Gentlemans Barbers’; the letters gilded in formerly splendid, now peeling, gold leaf.
From his vantage point concealed behind the lamp post, Alfie was able to see three empty red vinyl seats and in the fourth a man wearing a high visibility vest and dusty work boots waited his turn. In the centre of the shop stood Rodney, the Barber, snipping away at the back of someone’s head, periodically retreating a step to admire his work before moving back in like a boxer studying an opponent.
Deciding that this was quite acceptable – any more than three customers meant a frustrating period of waiting, often in excess of an hour – Alfie broke cover and strode confidently across the street and through the open doorway into the shop.
Rodney glanced up into the sizeable mirror on the wall to address his new customer. ‘Afternoon Alfie, you keeping alright?’
‘Aye, not so bad thanks Rod. Yourself?’ Alfie spoke to the barber’s reflection as he moved to the centre chair of the three empty ones on the far side of the shop.
The shop was unpretentious, intimate, busy with four customers, crowded with six. On the white wall opposite Alfie hung three sepia photographs in black frames, the subject of each a suited rhythm and blues trio featuring a youthful Rodney on drums.
Next to Alfie, in the left hand corner, was a small black and white television, itself old enough to sport a dial on the front to twist from station to station, much like tuning a radio. The programme on screen was a recording of the 100 Greatest Something or Other from Channel Four. Underneath the counter supporting the television, concealed by a red curtain on a rail, was a video recorder which had been, so far as Alfie could gather from previous visits, Rodney’s only innovation. ‘An attempt to attract a younger element, liven the place up a bit.’ Except Rodney only seemed to have this one cassette which he played continuously so that regular patrons knew the 100 Greatest verbatim.
Alfie leaned across to the counter and picked up a copy of The Daily Express from an assortment of the days newspapers. Further along the shelf lay an amassment of outdated magazines and leaflets which served as a history of local events over the past few years since Rodney never seemed to throw any of them away.
Five minutes later Alfie glanced up when he recognised the signs of a completed haircut. The barber brushed cuttings from the customer’s neck, showed him the rear view with a mirror and asked if he’d like anything on, ‘a bit of gel or wax’, which the man declined. Alfie watched as the man stood, rolled his head around to see various angles in the mirror then, satisfied, paid Rodney and told him to keep the change – Rodney rather shrewdly charged £6.80 for a haircut, but everybody seemed to hand over seven pounds and reject the twenty pence change.
While the next customer took his place in the elevated vinyl covered chair, Rodney quickly and efficiently swept clumps of hair from the floor with a dustpan and brush, deposited them in the swing bin behind the door and turned to repeat the process for the umpteenth time that day.
Soon, after shifting his attention variously between the back page sport stories, numbers 26-19 on the much viewed video countdown and the intermittent passers-by on the street outside, Alfie’s turn came. He had waited barely twenty minutes – most acceptable - since the preceding customer had requested a number two all over, one of Rodney’s specialities which involved a lot of clipping and very little actual cutting.
