[Photo credit: Getty Images. Google Search.]

A barber’s hands have the power to transform not just a person’s appearance, but their entire outlook on life.

I woke up this morning after dreaming of walking through a glorious city in the rain. It was a city of cathedrals and domed churches. But it was all wet. The people were wet. The sidewalks were slick with wet. Did I mention it was raining? And, in that dream, I felt an urge. I got out of bed and made my way into the bathroom without a single incident of slamming my foot against a luggage wheel. Was it all that rain?

Looking into the mirror I realized that I looked like the Werewolf of London had broken out of Highgate Cemetery, (for full disclosure read my last blog post).

That’s it, I said to no one. I’m tired of looking like Iggy Pop. I need a haircut. Within a few minutes I was booking an appointment at the Pall Mall Barbers. I scanned the photos of the available hair cutters. Cindy was too young and chic. Arnold was bald. I chose Viktor because he had wild curls and a certain panache about his expression.

On the street, I was walking slow, still sore from the night of immobility. Let’s get a taxi, I said. Okay, Mariam said. Some £9 later we had succeeded in getting around to the other side of Trafalgar Square. Close but not there. The driver, in the best cockney accent said that the street we were looking for was just there. She pointed to a orange barrier about fifty feet away.

We’ll get out here, I said.

[Read this sentence aloud] – You can wouk, it’s close, she said.

A few minutes later, I was hanging up my coat and scarf and preparing to get seated, when Viktor emerged from behind a curtain, entering the scene like an Oxford Don arriving for a lecture. I shook his hand and sat in the seat. We consulted a moment. I showed him a photo of me taken about forty-five years ago for a school yearbook. I was going to say: Yes, that’s me, but as I looked once more at it, I wondered…is that really how I looked once upon a time? I ignored my doubts and pointed to the hair part of the picture. We studied it together, Viktor and me. He rose up and looked at me with a smile. Have I finally found a friend? I asked myself.

After I took my seat and he had pinned the large black cape around me, he told me to get ready for the shampoo. Now, back home, that’s often done by a woman in a side room in the salon. Not here. I was told to bend over and put my neck against the porcelain sink. I felt like Louis XVI, or worse yet, a ninth-grader at the school nurses’ vomitorium.

The cut was progressing well. I watched as my grey (or as I like to say, silver) hair fell in clumps on my chest and stomach. I was feeling good. After many attempts to get the right cut for me, I felt this was going to work. It was then that I glanced up at the shelf of shampoos, conditioners and various kinds of “product” and saw it.

[Viktor’s station. Photo is mine.]

On the shelf above the Barbicide. Was that a bottle of blended scotch? I realized right then I was in the company of gentlemen (although there was a woman in the chair next to me). To sit in that magic chair and sip a scotch…this wasn’t 72nd Street. It was nice to see, but I’m not imbibing these days so it was a interesting curiosity.

Wait! I can hear my readers say. Hold on. You’re in one of the most famous cities on the planet, home of King Charles III, Westminster Abbey, Big Ben and so much more, and you’re wasting your valuable blog site time on talking about a hair cut? What’s wrong with you?

Actually nothing.

On the way back to the hotel, we had a short detour to make. A visit to the largest bookstore in Europe…Waterstones on Piccadilly Street. I needed a few more books to add to the growing pile of books that will come home with me and keep me company on cold rainy days…much like this one. After a purchase, a cappuccino for Mariam and myself, we set off for the hotel. While waiting for a green walk light, the sidewalk behind me began filling up with marchers from a certain country in Africa that starts with a “C”. They were singing protest songs in their language. The signs read something about calling on the Empire to stop it’s duplicity and stop allowing discrimination against Christians back in their homeland. I’d like to say more about them and their cause, but I have to tread carefully here. I intend to post this blog on Facebook…and I’ve had an issue or two about my posts from Morocco.

Memes. I must take care not to use or refer or mention certain things I observe because I might be accused of perpetuating a negative cultural meme. Or, things I would use as “tags” might be seen as me misleading people and luring them in to add to the views and/or likes regarding my content. I would never do that to my faithful readers. I would not trick people with misleading comments. I simply beg them to read my blogs. It’s a lot simpler.

And, how did it all work out?

[Before the haircut. Photo credit: toplawyer.law.]

[After the haircut. Photo courtesy of Mariam Voutsis.]

It’s now 7:00 pm, GMT and it’s still raining.