I’ve just come back from the hairdressers. They say the internet and social media have killed the art of conversation. Nowhere would you appear to get better confirmation of this than at the barbers. Second only to the deathly wisdom of the taxi driver, the hairdresser has brought chat down to a new level of banality.
That’s if you can get a word out of them in the first place. Sometimes the silence gets so bad you’d do anything for a snipper to utter an immortal, 'And something for the weekend, sir?' But that would be ironic and irony tends to be in short supply in the British hairdressing salon of the 21st century.
In my book, men who pay a small fortune to get their hair cut are either mad or dodgy. Being a tight wad who resents going over the £10 mark to get what is left of my locks sorted, maybe I have only myself to blame for the poor levels of chat. Maybe at Nicky Clarke or Vidal Sassoon they all provide rich, witty repartee the like of which has not been heard since Oscar Wilde. But I doubt it.