Unisex Unisucks
Once upon a time men provided services for men, women for women. Now, in the age of sexual equality we have Unisex services which should in theory take the best of both worlds to offer the ultimate in customer service. Right?
Some time ago in England a nice, civic minded, forward thinking and demented woman threw herself in front of the Grand National horse race (being suitably killed as a result) in order to draw attention to the Suffragette Movement, and women’s right to vote.
Some time later pals of Germaine Greer decided that burning their brassiers would make a suitable gesture to draw attention to the inequality between genders in modern life, the workplace etc
Good work ladies, you accomplished a fair bit and while I’m not about to claim that everything is now all balanced between the sexes so women should just shut the fuck up about it, because I’d be wrong, we have come a good way towards getting it right. Inequality is all over the shop, not just between the sexes, but that’s far too political for me to get into beyond a statement like : “Well that’s not ideal now is it?”
What I called you here today for is to remark upon the advent of unisex services which have sprung up off the back of women’s lib. This particular missive will not be covering the growth in WOMAN ONLY SERVICES – like Diamond or Sheila’s Wheels *We only insure lady drivers because the only accident they’re likely to have is reversing into another car when trying to park in a space which could accomodate a bus, or, possibly wrap themselves around a lamp-post as they’re fixing their make-up while tuning the radio and having a conversation on their mobile phone. Unlike men who have accidents in a manly fashion, ie driving at 150MPH into the central reservation of the motorway causing a 9 car pileup, albeit spectacular*
No, we shall not be covering the newly acceptable sexism in the service industry today, but you get the sense it will be covered at some point, right?
Today we are covering multi-gender services, the unisex branch of the service industry.
Specifically fucking hairdressers.
When I was a lad my father would take me (after he insisted my mother stopped cutting my hair. Thanks Dad, best thing you ever did) to the barber’s.
The barber’s was a shop operated by men for men, charging a man price for a man service delivered in a man amount of time. There was no superfluous conversation beyond “what do you want” and “that’ll be 2 quid”. There was no hanging around – one barber could sort 10 customers in 30 minutes. Frankly, there was no pissing about.
For years this was the status quo, and until recently I used to go to Jim’s Barbers (haircuts while you wait) which was owned and operated by a former Canadian ice-hockey player called Jim. He would cut your hair (I could ask for “the usual” and he’d know what it was) in around 5 minutes while ranting on about the general state of the country, to which you’d mutter agreement. Jim did not muck about. 10 minutes waiting, 5 minutes cutting, job done, time to get back to more important things like lying on the sofa watching sports and scratching oneself intermittently.
Haircuts are a waste of time. Every man knows this.
Meanwhile, my good lady wife would announce one morning that she had an appointment for a harcut that day. An appointment! As serious as seeing a doctor then?
She would then leave the house and return 3 hours later with a haircut which was either : A – something bold and new and invariably a disaster or B – the same as always and nearly impossible to spot, but always C : £80 worse off.
You see, we men get used to seeing our favourite females with one hairstyle. You change it, we get baffled. It’s like having to replace your favourite shoes because they are completely knackered. You don’t want to replace them, they were comfortable and you liked the style from the second you bought them 5-10 years ago, and you know you won’t be able to find The Exact Same Pair again in the shops because some Fashionista Intelligensia has declared them “like so last season dahrling”.
So, women, pick a haircut we like and make do. Don’t change. Radical colours and styles might make you feel a million dollars but they cost a shitload of cash and usually end up making you look like crap. Or fat. Or whatever other word I could insert to dissuade you from doing it.
Gentlemen, a word of warning at this stage. This is a situation much like many others involving women which have a set call and response system attached.
Example 1:
[question] “Does this dress make me look fat?”
[instant response] “No”
Example 2:
[question] “Would you like me to drive?”
[instant response] “No”
In this case you will have to remember that she went to get her hair cut, so that within 30 seconds of her return you can offer one of the following :
“Hey, nice haircut!”
“Wow, that makes you look sexy”
“However much you paid for that was worth every penny”
Do NOT give an honest opinion, it will not be appreciated.
POINT OF WARNING : Be sure to have a look at her before she goes so you can spot whether she’s had a haircut or not. Women change their minds all the time for no reason. If you are uncertain as to whether she’s had it cut or not, I suggest the following :
YOU : “Wow, that new style really suits you”
HER : “What do you mean? I didn’t go in the end”
YOU : “Seriously!? Well did you dry it differently today because it really works. Really! Keep it just like that.”
So. With the advent of sexual equality we now have to tolerate women working in the barbers. Which are no longer called barbers. They’re now called “Hair Stylists” or “Salons” or “Hairdressers”. These women will insist on trying to start a conversation with you and will never remember what your “usual” is, and you will undoubtedly come out with a different style each time, so your behaviour in getting your hair cut must be changed.
First, learn what your hair cut is best described as. Then distill this description into as few words as possible. There will be a lot of attempted conversation during your time in The Chair so you should conserve your wording wherever possible. They’ll get it different to how you had it before every time, but with the right description it will come close-ish.
The classic Sam (13 years straight!) is described as follows :
“Grade 2 back and sides, trim the top a bit but leave most of the length”.
Try it out! You might like it! Send me photos if you do.
Last Saturday, I went to “Simone’s Hair Stylists” in the mighty ‘stowe for my traditional six-weekly grade-2-back-and-sides-trim-the-top-a-bit-but-leave-most-of-the-length and, as I’m British, sat in the “salon” in the queue waiting.
Ahead of me are two blokes and a woman. Being “done” currently are two women and a girl.
First – it’s Saturday noon-ish. A time I would describe as PEAK BUSINESS HOURS FOR A FUCKING BARBERS. And given that this “salon” had 10 mirror/chair combo seats available I was a little perplexed at the apparent lack of staff. Perplexity compounded when Hairdresser #1, the eponymous Simone announced “she was only doing bookings today” as she fucked off without a trace after finishing her customer (45 minutes later).
My calculations based on completion percentage (or my assumption thereof) of the existing customer base and those ahead of me in the queue was that I should be under the scissor within 10 minutes. Not ideal, but acceptable so I proceeded to conduct myself in the time honoured tradition of staring blankly into space while waiting.
50 minutes later and neither the second woman or the girl had been completed, the latter being asked “would you like it washed before you go?”
FOR FUCK’S SAKE. SHE’S A NINE YEAR OLD GIRL! HER HAIR WILL BE A MATTED NEST OF MUD, VOMIT, SNOT AND CHERRY COKE WITHIN 20 MINUTES ANYWAY GET A FUCKING MOVE ON YOU CRETINOUS TART.
As a side note – “Simone’s Hair Boutique” has a dress code for its employees – black leggings (for non-Brits, read black spandex pants), and a black top of some kind. Very chic I’m sure. However it should be noted that unless you are a certain build this particular combination will make you look like lard overstuffed into a shiny black bin liner. Needless to say, any hairdressers of note work in women-only establishments so “Simone’s Hair Stylings and Existential Enlightenment Centre” is staffed purely by the offcuts spawned from the shallow end of the gene pool.
Not that I am in any way sizist. Far from it. As a gentleman who enjoys pizza, coke, Guinness and lying on a sofa watching sports and scratching myself intermittently I am not what could be described as svelt. However I am blessed with an understanding of “do I look good in this” and thus lycra/spandex does not appear in my wardrobe, 1 : because I look like shit wearing it and 2 : there is no need for any further points.
So, one hour later I finally get my turn in the chair, and 10 minutes later my latest “do” is complete.
“That’ll be £8 dear”
What!? Firstly, eight quid is a bit fucking steep “dear”, secondly it says £6.50 on the pricing board (which is divided into “Ladie’s” and “Gent’s”. I shit you not.)
That, quite frankly, was the final straw. I had had quite enough of that establishment and was not about to take it lying down. Poor service should always be admonished on the spot.
So I paid the £8, gave a 50p tip and left.
My plan next time around is to go the whole hog, avoid sodding unisex and go to a women’s hair parlor and sort them out properly. I understand this involves some other rituals, however I am prepared :
“Would you like a coffee?”
“No. I want a haircut.”
“Magazine while you wait?”
“How about I skip the magazine and go straight to the haircut you inbred harpie.”
Where oh where are all the barbers?
I’ll tell you where. They’re dead. They have been usurped by a bunch of smacked-arse-face women and chaps named Raoul, Jean-Pierre or Quentin all of whom mince around women-only hairdressers calling themselves “stylists”.
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