The Haircut

Javi had been in London for six months, and in that time he had not had his hair cut once. At home in Zaragoza he had always gone to the same hairdresser, a friend of his mother's who never asked him what he wanted, because she already knew. In London, getting a haircut felt like a test he had not studied for. So he had let it grow, and now, the day before the most important job interview of his life, he looked, as his flatmate kindly put it, "like a mop that has been left out in the rain".

The interview was at a small design agency in Shoreditch. Javi had prepared everything. He had had his portfolio printed, he had had his only suit cleaned, and he had practiced his answers in front of the mirror until he could say "I'm a fast learner and a good team player" without sounding like a robot. The hair was the last problem.

There was a barber's shop at the end of his street with a red and white pole outside and a sign that said NO APPOINTMENT NEEDED. Inside, three barbers were working, the radio was playing loudly and everyone seemed to be talking at the same time. A tall man with a beard and tattoos on both arms pointed at the empty chair. "Sit down, mate. What are we doing today?"

Javi had rehearsed this sentence too. He wanted to have it cut short, but not too short, and tidied up at the back. What came out was: "Short, please. But normal." The barber nodded as if this were a perfectly clear instruction. Then he asked a question that contained the words "skin", "fade" and "number two", and something about the top that Javi did not catch at all. The music was loud, the barber spoke fast, and Javi did what many people do in a foreign language when they are tired and embarrassed. He smiled and said, "Yes, perfect."

For the next twenty minutes he watched in the mirror as his head was slowly transformed. The sides were shaved almost to the skin. The back disappeared. The top was cut, shaped, combed upwards and finished with a product that smelled of coconut. Every time the barber asked "All right?", Javi said "Yes", partly out of politeness and partly because he no longer knew what he would ask for instead.

When it was over, the barber held up a mirror behind him and said proudly, "Sharp, isn't it?" It was certainly sharp. Javi looked like the lead singer of a band that had just won a prize. He paid, left a tip and walked home without looking at any shop windows. His flatmate opened the door, stared at him for three seconds and then said, "Wow. You should get your photo taken." Javi could not tell whether this was a compliment.

That night he hardly slept. He considered wearing a hat to the interview. He considered getting the rest of his hair cut off so that at least it would look intentional. In the end he decided there was nothing he could do, put on his clean suit and took the bus to Shoreditch, trying not to see his reflection in the windows.

The receptionist at the agency smiled when she saw him. So did the young man who brought him a glass of water. Javi assumed they were laughing at him. Then the door of the meeting room opened, and the creative director came out to greet him. She was about forty, wore large round glasses and had exactly the same haircut, shaved at the sides, sharp at the top. Javi tried very hard not to stare.

The interview went better than he could have imagined. They looked at his portfolio, asked about his projects in Spain and laughed at his jokes. At the end, the creative director stood up, shook his hand and said, "I'll be honest with you. I knew you'd fit in here as soon as you walked through the door. Do you go to Marco's, at the end of Bethnal Green Road?" Javi admitted that he did. "Best barber in London," she said. "I've been having my hair done there for years."

Javi got the job. He now goes back to Marco's every four weeks, and he has learned what a skin fade is. When people ask him what he wants, he points at his head and says, with total confidence, "The same again, please."