I well remember the Barber in Cheriton in the 50's/60, I think he was ex army, he had a a child specific chair that was height adjustable, I remember Dad buying a little something for the weekend and I remember you got a better haircut in the morning than in the afternoon courtesy of the Barber's liking for a liquid lunch in the pub across the road.
One of the few things I ever used to do with my dad - he always seemed to be at work, doing DIY, fixing his car or resting
- was to go to the barbers with him every 6 weeks or so. It was always a 'short back and sides' cut and then, every time, he would tell me to tell the barber whether I wanted
Brylcreem or 'spray' on my hair. Well, I didn't fancy that greasy-haired look so I always said 'spray' but it never occurred to me to say that I didn't want the spray either!
Then one day, dad said "Coming to the barbers with me, Col?" and for some unknown reason, I simply said "No thanks!" and I never went with him again. And the inevitable consequence of that little act of rebellion was ...
(you guessed it!)
...
this!
Ha ha!