Do You Really Want A Shorter Fringe?

I have always felt slightly apprehensive about going to the hairdressers. It dates back to when I was about seven years old, and my Mum asked my Dad to take me to have my haircut one Saturday afternoon. Not one for vanity and probably slightly intimidated by going into a hairdresser's full of women, he took me to the local barber's shop. Once at the "The Golden Shears", an old man called Adrian gave me what is best described as a "bowl-cut", complimented by a fringe that was so short it stood straight out from my forehead. It may have ruined my street-cred at school, but at least he didn't expect me to talk to him.

For me, the worst thing about going to the hairdressers is the inane chatter that comes free with the haircut. Don't get me wrong, I like chatting as much as the next person, but I would rather sit in silence than have a contrived conversation about where I am going on my next holiday. (I have also tried the deep and meaningful approach -- believe me, it doesn't usually go down well, better to stick to the holiday subject.)

Take a number and settle down with the gossip mags

However, needs must and I gave in and I finally went to the hairdresser here last week. I happened to be walking around in Mitte, Berlin's ‘hippest' Viertel, when I saw a sign advertising haircuts for ten euros a piece. It looked like a nice place: full of people, funky music blasting out and nothing like the Golden Shears -- probably the only place left in the UK where you might find a haircut for the equivalent of ten euros.

Where was the catch? The catch was that you couldn't make an appointment and instead took a ticket with a number on, like the ones you get at the meat counter in the supermarket, and waited your turn. This suited me fine, as I got to sit and people-watch, whilst flicking through trashy gossip magazines. It's a guilty pleasure that makes a trip to the dentist/ doctor/hairdresser just about bearable.

Twenty minutes later I was called up and, preparing myself for the excruciating chat, took a seat in the swivel chair, while a girl with a face full of piercings and arms covered in tattoos fastened the backwards jacket thing around my neck. She asked me what I wanted and I explained I wanted a trim and perhaps some shorter bits at the front.

Say what you want

My exact words: "Ich glaube, ich möchte es vorne etwas kürzer haben."

Her exact words: "Du glaubst du möchtest, oder du willst, was solls' denn jetzt sein?"

Straight to the point, no beating around the bush with this one: did I think I would like short bits or did I want them? With no time to dither, I said I did want them. She nodded and that was the last time we exchanged words until she had finished, and had booted me out the chair towards the hairdryers and styling products. (For ten euros you can hardly expect a blow dry too).

It was the best haircut I have had for a long time, not only because she did a fast and professional job, but because for the first time, I got to sit in silence in the hairdresser's without feeling awkward, free to read trashy magazines and day-dream. Bliss.