Gordon cuts a dash – and my hair

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Well, another year done and dusted, and a few more grey hairs into the bargain. I didn’t think it possible, but a check in the mirror confirmed it. In fact, it’s not so much grey now as snowy-white.

Truth is I didn’t need a mirror to spot the changes.

Up until the week before Christmas, my locks dangled gracefully over my collar and onto my shoulders. My ears were invisible.

To the front my fringe dripped low and, at times, obscured my vision. I knew it was time for a cut – but it is winter and a good heid o’ hair is, to me, better than a bonnet or a balaclava, or one those woolly things that seem to be all the rage now.

My four-times-a-year cuts are normally done by Paula in Selkirk, but she’s been a bit busy of late.

So, I had decided that I would stay long-haired until early spring and then submit myself to clippers and scissors.

But it was not to be. I’ve been on holiday for a couple of weeks. Doing nothing but lazing around and kidding that this year I would be well prepared for Christmas and not scurrying around at the last minute on Christmas Eve. I did manage to get a fair bit done in advance of the 25th – I even managed to get my real tree erected on the 23rd. However, I still shopped on Christmas Eve, although not – as usual –for everything. Just a few important last-minute purchases. I have this theory that if I have just a few hours instead of a few weeks, I can’t dilly-dally and just have to set to and get on with things.

But I digress. I would not be, as some friends call, the big hairy yin over the festive season. It came about thus.

I was in Galashiels the week before Santa was due to visit, determined to wrap up Christmas early. I was sauntering along Bank Street and was just past Dalgetty the bakers when I got the call. Gordon the barber was standing in his shop doorway, resplendent in maroon tunic and clutching a pair of shears. His free hand raised and his index finger beckoned me. I was well and truly collared.

Ushered past the ladies’ salon, I took my seat in the room reserved for gentlemen. And that’s when it happened. I wasn’t asked what kind of cut I wanted. Gordon had decided.

And he was right. I watched my locks tumble to the floor and spotted how, in four months, they had turned more white than grey. I still have my hair, whatever the colour, albeit a bit shorter.

But in four months’ time I’ll avoid Bank Street and use Channel Street.