Took a couple walks through Dingle town before I found the perfect place for a haircut. Funny, it’s on “the Strand”. Our B&B is on “the wood”. I’m guessing that before the road along the waterfront, there was some sort of boardwalk over the boggy ground. It is known that the Irish don’t go out of their way for naming-originality. The square in the middle of town is unoriginally called, “The Square”.
So the Strand seemed an ideal place for a shearing. Across from the church I spotted a barbers pole. Not the spinning red and white pole, but just a simple red and white spiraled carved pole on the side of the storefront. In the window a painted pair of shears and a sign reading, a place for men. Looks good.
Inside, a bald guy with grey hairs only above his ears, was getting “a trim”. I’m not quite sure why he was even in there, he had very little hair. Me, my Fabio hair, I needed more than “a trim”. He motioned me to the waiting area. I read the Irish Times watching an old bald Irishman get his few strands of hair cut. He and the barber talkin’ CRAIC.
Another man hurriedly came in from our first sunny day. You’re up next, lad. I jumped up and sat down on that chair. “What am I doing for ya’ today?” he asked. “More than a trim, a good shearing would do.” I replied sheepishly.
He began cutting.
After a little small talk, I told him that this cut is my souvenir. It’s cheap, lightweight, and I’m taking it home. Besides, I told him, it’ll be back in a few months.
The clipping went on. Occasionally he’d wipe at my neck and blow with his mouth any stray strand.
He finished up, shaved my neck, and the towel was off. Drawing the mirror close, he asks,”Whad’d’ya think?” Tilting my head side to side, I approved, “Grand, good looks.”