A Freshen Up

***Character name change. Selena is now Mikaela, and is of both English and Swedish decent.***

I decided that maybe Marianne was right, a fresh look might help to switch things up. Boost my confidence and, at the very least, stop anyone or anything from mistaking me for a camel. I booked a haircut for Friday lunchtime, and I’m about to leave the office. Checking myself in the bathroom mirror, I run my hand through my hair. It does look kind of long and scruffy. Usually, I wait for around seven to eight weeks between haircuts to save money. Perhaps that’s having more of a negative impact that’s worth more than the £30 I’m saving annually. It’s not just long and scruffy, though, admittedly, my ‘look’ has become a bit bland. It has no real shape to it. I’ve been googling hairstyles for men and searching for the right words to describe them, because I never know what to say when I’m in the chair. I usually just tell the barber, “Short back and sides and shorter on top,” meaning, just cut it. I may as well just shrug. I searched the barbershop’s website for the most stylish and sought-after barber, Bruno, and booked an appointment with him. Hopefully, he can help me out.

I arrive at the barbershop a couple of minutes early and take a seat in the waiting area. It’s a cool place, nicer than the one I usually go to, but it is £10 more expensive, so it better be worth it. There are photos hanging on the exposed brick wall of intimidatingly handsome men, all in black and white, showing off their fresh cuts. I’m sitting in a stylish, gentleman’s brown leather sofa that looks straight from a GQ Mad Men-inspired photoshoot. Bruno, the barber I requested, is busy with another customer, but he only appears to be mid-cut. I booked the 1 p.m. time slot so I could get back to work, leaving enough time to pick up some food from Sainsbury’s on the way back to the office. If I’m going to splash out on a new look, I’m going to need to save some money somewhere, so I’ll be making the most of the Sainsbury’s meal deal for the next few weeks.

I check the time, it’s ten minutes past. I’m going to be late for work at this rate. My knee bounces involuntarily, but stops when the attractive female barber approaches. She asks if I’m waiting. She smiles, letting me know her chair is free. I hesitate, not knowing how to respond. I am waiting, but for Bruno, the Brazilian with the long and confident hair, with whom I booked. But I don’t have time to sit around all day, but I also don’t want to be a ‘no show’ for Bruno. I’m torn between my need to be polite and my need for a timely haircut. I don’t know how to respond until I accidentally make eye contact and immediately crumble like I do around every attractive woman and give in with an agreeable head nod.

I swallow, “Um, yea-h.” I say it like a question, and she doesn’t pick up on my confliction. She ushers me up and directs me to her chair, which is directly next to Bruno’s. He’s still chatting away like he’s in no rush whatsoever. Kayla, who already introduced herself, asks me what I want doing, and all the words I’d practised flee my brain like a full-scale evacuation. My brain is rebooting.

“Err…” Awkwardly long pause and a subtle swallow. “I don’t know,” I say, lifting my eyes cautiously. “What do you think?” I say, finding my voice, “I need a new look, and I need all the help I can get.” Suddenly I’m opening up to Kayla like she’s a trained therapist. It must be the chair. Either that, or the fact that she’s standing over me, brandishing blades and staring intently.

Kayla looks me over in the mirror and then spins me around to lean into me to get a closer look. She runs a hand through my hair and then locks eyes with me as if she’s checking to see if it’s okay, and my face flushes hot like I’ve swallowed a chilli pepper. Kayla is tall and slender with long hair and high cheekbones; she looks more like the runway model than the stylist. She releases me from her invisible snare and swings me around without saying a word. She starts clipping my hair, and I guess I’m committed, now.

A few minutes into the cut, and I look over to see Bruno finally finishing up with his customer and then looking around for what would be me. He calls my name, I immediately look to Kayla in the mirror, and she understands straight away. She leans down, gripping the back of the chair, her face hovering over my right shoulder, “You were waiting for Bruno, weren’t you?” I squeeze my lips together and answer with a dip of my chin. “I’m so sorry, I’m always stealing his clients. I don’t mean to!” I feel bad because it was on me to say something. I was just feeling too anxious. I don’t like speaking to strangers; I’m not good at it.

“Finished, what do you think?” Kayla finishes my cut, and I look in the mirror, trying to act like I know what I’m looking at.

I turn my head and squint like I’m inspecting her work and then nod my approval, and say things like, “Um, yep, looks good. Great. Much better, thanks.” I don’t know why I find it awkward, but I don’t feel like I have the credentials to criticise her work. Then she pulls out the mirror to show me the back of my head, and I know I need to see it, but I don’t have a natural response for it. I respond with another round of “Um, yeah, good and much better,” when I realise she’s looking for something more, and for some reason my brain chooses the dad-joke response switch, “I look younger.” Kayla laughs like she might have underestimated my age, and I wish I knew how to talk to people.

Kayla lingers with the mirror like she’s not convinced whether I like it, and the truth is, I don’t know yet. It’s different to what I’m used to. It’s too new. I kind of need to sleep on it, shower, and try to replicate the style myself to confirm if I like it or not. I don’t want to be ungrateful, but worrying about her feelings is making my face look even more uncomfortable, which is making everything worse. My skin is buzzing with awkwardness, and I need to leave; my extroverted powers are depleted. I try my best to convey my appreciation for her work, and she seems to accept it with a smile. I leave feeling flustered by the whole experience rather than refreshed by my new look.

On the street, I check my hair in my phone’s camera, and it looks good. Surprisingly good, now that I have a second to absorb it. She’s given me what I can only describe as a classic British gentleman look. She’s given me this mid-length confident swoop and a classy side parting. I was a little worried she’d buzzcut the sides so short she’d leave me with a floppy mullet, like I’m wearing roadkill. I don’t get the look. Thankfully, she left the sides mid-length and tidy, not unlike Clark Kent. My immediate thought is that I’ll need to get my hair trimmed more often to keep it looking fresh. I’ll have to style it every day, rather than just dry it and scruff a hand through it like I usually do. I make a note to check GQ for the best styling products, because I’m going to need something quality-made to keep this up, but I’m going to give it a go.

As I walk away from the barber, I realise the time and rush into Sainsbury’s to grab something to eat before heading back to the office. On the way out of the store, a dark-haired woman with brown eyes like swirls of cognac drinks me in with prolonged eye contact, and I almost stumble out of our slow-motion passing in a blur of drunken confidence. I feel her gaze follow me as I walk away with my head held high for the first time in a while, like I’m suddenly attractive to the opposite sex. The little smile I catch on her lips as she leaves my peripheral, lands on my face with a replicating smile of my own. I think Kayla may be my new favourite barber.

As I step through the open doorway onto my team’s floor, I feel seen. My run-in with the woman on the street has me feeling confident, and I don’t have time to overthink it and doubt myself like I usually do. I have ten minutes to get back to my desk and eat my lunch before I have to jump into a data exploration meeting. It’s when we review the client brief and the objectives for the research while running through the topline data readings to establish our analysis pathways. We align our hypothesis as a team and then assign tasks and divvy up the workload. I’m leading the meeting for the first time. It’s the work that Mikaela helped me to land.

When I enter the meeting, Mikaela lifts her chin in my direction with her usual friendly smile resting on her lips, but then continues until she’s widening her eyes and taking in my new look. Her smile extends, and I feel validated. I make a mental note to thank Marianne and commit myself to the Turkish shave I prebooked for after work. I was going to cancel because I’ve never been to a Turkish barber before, and it makes me nervous to enter a new environment. Especially if I’m walking in with a fresh cut that I didn’t get there, but Roger told me to “suck it up,” which is becoming an annoying catchphrase. He insisted a traditional shave at the Turkish barber was the way to go, so I’m trusting him, which I’m ninety per cent comfortable with.

“Great meeting. That went so well.” Mikaela says as the others leave the room.

“You think so?”

“Definitely. It must be the new hair.” She says, looking up as though she wants to run a hand through my swoop.

“Oh, thanks. You like it then.”

She purses her lips in thought and holds back a smile that still lights up her whole face. “Definitely,” she says in a way that has me sucking in extra air through my nostrils. My chest isn’t usually this puffed out. I haven’t felt this confident in a long time. Mikaela touches my arm as she steps in front of me on her way out. She stares into my eyes as our bodies align, and I notice her bottom lip tucked in like she’s biting on the inside of it. I have a smile on my face for the rest of the day.

I stand outside the Turkish barber, trying to drum up the courage to go in. It seems noisy and vibrant and not my usual kind of place, but it was highly recommended on Google Maps and a few online blogs. I think of Roger and suck in a breath, puffing out my chest again. They greet me with a smile and a hello, and I’m eighty per cent confident they’re friendly and trustworthy.

“Welcome, brother, take a seat. Tea?” He offers me a glass of hot Turkish tea, and I already feel more pampered than I’ve ever been before. Despite my mild concerns over loose hair landing in said tea, I accept it gladly and then realise that I only have time for a couple of quick sips before they’re lathering up my face with cream. We begin with a hot towel, which is surprisingly relaxing. I’m back to ninety per cent.

Once the shaving cream is applied, I mentally brace myself for what comes next. I know I signed up for this, and I do honestly love the feeling of a metal blade across my skin, but my confidence drops to a mere thirty per cent. I take a quick swallow of my nerves right before he moves my face into position because as soon as the blade touches my skin, I’m pretty much holding in my breath. It’s such a shallow swallow because I’m afraid of making any sudden movements, like a subtle bob of my Adam’s apple or a slight flexion of my jaw muscles, could lead to a Tarantino-esque movie scene.

I needn’t have worried, because the barber is a pro. He pulls my skin taut and moves his hands in smooth and steady strokes. Afterwards, my face feels so tight and smooth, my confidence jumps to a hundred and ten. I almost forgot I had a Clark Kent jawline until I look in the mirror and see my freshly shaved reflection. I look like Jude Law in The Holiday, but with a slightly better hairline. Thankfully, I have a full head of hair to get me through my single thirties, which I don’t take for granted. I do, though, need to get some new glasses because somehow, when Jude Law puts them on in the movie, you can literally hear every woman’s heart swoon in a ten-mile radius. There’s an audible “ohh” in the air. I want that.

As I begin readying myself for whatever the beard equivalent of an end-of-cut mirror showcase is, the barber pulls out some thread and starts pulling at my eyebrows. I squeeze the armrests, unsure of what I’ve accidentally agreed to because I don’t remember signing up for this. My immediate anxious thought is that I will wind up looking like Joey in Friends when he has eyebrows plucked into thin lines. Thankfully, he does just enough to tidy them without completely reshaping my face, but before I can study the change, he flashes a giant flame right next to my face; it’s so close I can feel the warmth on my skin, and I freeze. What the actual fuck? Did he just—Wait. Is he burning my ears?! I don’t move, and his colleague says something in Turkish, and they share a laugh. I glance at the mirror and realise they’re laughing at the expression of shock and panic on my face. The brief one hundred ten per cent hovering at a lowly ten.

“Don’t worry, it’s normal. It’s what we do. We burn the hair, that’s all. See, there, you look good, like a young Dumbledore.”

A what? Dumbledore?!—Oh! Okay, he means Jude Law. I do look like Jude Law. I knew it! I check myself in the mirror and run a hand over my newly displayed jawline. Feeling my confidence return. Usually, I would say I’m like a six or a six and a half out of ten, but right now I’m a solid seven, seven plus. I text Roger.

He begins with a laughing emoji. That’s what they do, dude. I thought you knew that. Bet you look like fire, though, am I right?

When I send Roger a photo and tell him the guy said I look like Jude Law, he sends back an over-the-top laughing gif to humble me. He tells me he was closer with the Dumbledore comment, but he does admit that I look better with a clean shave and a fresh cut.

Now you need those glasses that Jude wears in The Holiday. It’s about time you bought a new pair and ideally, a whole new wardrobe.

Marianne told me to get new clothes, too. I feel like I’m in an episode of Queer Eye.

So, how’d it go with Marianne? You two still doing the whole friends thing?

We’re not doing a thing. We are friends.

Mmhmm, and I treat my body like a temple. He sends a picture of himself in a hammock, drinking a beer. He’s currently in Thailand teaching and travelling. “Don’t mind the beer. We’re just friends.” He captions it.

I roll my eyes. I don’t want to go over this again with Roger, but it didn’t work between me and Marianne. With her being so close to Sarah, it just felt weird. Plus, she always dates these artsy guys with tattoos and too much confidence. I doubt she’d want a guy like me. She deserves so much better. Anyway, I cut my chat with Roger short and head to the opticians and try not to baulk at the prices of the designer lenses. I try on a pair that look cool before I put them on my face. They look awful, or I look awful in them, more like. I have a knack for making cool things look average. The attendant comes over and asks if I need help. I don’t know what to say, and she takes that as a ‘yes.’ She asks if I know what my face shape is, and I wonder if she can see me or if I’m invisible. Then she explains that certain frame shapes fit certain face shapes better, and I question why I never knew that. I pull out my old grey oval frames to show her what I usually wear, and she scrunches her face in disapproval. Then she claims a pair of thick black round frames from the display and tells me to put them on. She then directs me to the mirror and stands behind me while I realise I’ve been wearing the wrong glasses my whole adult life. I look so different. When she asks me if she should box them up for me, I check the price on the ticket and swallow a lump of ‘poor’ down my throat and let it burn. I guess that means I’m forfeiting a holiday this year. I convince myself that it is an investment, that I will wear them every day and that one of my goals for the year was to date more and find a girlfriend. I nod and thank her for her help.

As I leave the store, I decide I’ve spent more than enough money for one day and that I’ll save the clothes shopping for the weekend.

…

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