Al fresco, in ones & twos, at the Fiddlers' Cafe I walked past & into ADAM'S BARBERS and took a seat straight away. Today was the short stout barber that took the clippers - I usually get his tall thin colleague with hair down to his waste. I always enjoy this : the politics of making nano-talk chat last for as long as the cut takes. There is only the two barbers and me in the shop & as he cuts we watch the snooker on the portable box in the corner of the shop (I listen, looking at my self in the mirror - but even my barber manages to watch). Grown men depart pixels of colour for our pleasure to earn - if Hendry can make this maximum - ten times an annual barber's wage in nine minutes. I start to respect the multi- tasking of the man with the cut-throat. Michael Ayres - one of the most under-rated living poets - once wrote that a barber is a cross between a baptist & an executioner. My neck is wet. Hendry misses. We all relax. The cut comes to nine, I leave...
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