We call him Nazi Bob. Once a month, I get my haircut at Bob’s salon. "Short back and sides, but long at the front, Bob, so I can do a Morrissey quiff.
" I come home and tell my wife and kids about Bob’s latest outrages. "What do you think of the hairdo, girls? And by the way, Bob intends to invade Poland." Bob's flirtation with extremism has grown in intensity.
He started small but by last weekend he’d gone full Führer. I chose Bob’s salon as I’d fallen out of love with my Turkish barbers. A new scissor-lord had taken over a chair and I kept getting him.
He was a decent chap, from Iraq, and I liked his chat, but he was dreadful at his job. Not only did he almost pull my face off when he performed that sadistic wax-up-the-nose-on-an-earbud thing that’s somehow become popular, but he was a pancake at barbering. On a good day, he made me look like a ripped cinema seat, on a bad day I resembled an abused haystack.
So I thought I’d give Bob a whirl. I mentioned how disappointed I was with my old Turkish barber when I first plonked myself in Bob’s chair. And so it began.
Bob got right into playing a hand of poker - all with race cards. It was the usual "coming over here stealing our jobs" stuff. Though his Reform routine was rather undermined by the fact that Bob is continually turning customers away as he has too much work.
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