So I went for a haircut and ended up in a ball of flame but in a good way.
It’s one of the things that make Govanhill, on the south side of Glasgow, Scotland’s most diverse neighbourhood, such a vibrant place to live.
Walk in, sit down, strap in, here we go, ten in a row.
What will it be today, sir?
Usual please. Head torched, eyebrows burning, ears on fire, nostrils ablaze, cheeks aflame.
No problem, sir.
In some neighbourhoods, barbershops and expensive restaurants are the new heavy industry.
But this is Govanhill not Finnieston so it’s Kurdish barbers and friendly service and it’s seven quid not twenty five. The pubs are better round here too.
Snip, clip, razor and shear. Steamed and powdered and ironed.
Then it’s on with a blowtorch for the ayebrows, lawn mower the nasal hair, combine harvester on the chin, flame thrower for those difficult to reach bits around the ears.
Purified, consecrated, cleansed. Until all that’s left is a smoking pile of ashes on the chair.
Will that be all for today, sir?
Aye thanks yes please fine good great mate bye.
Govanhill’s next superhero will be wearing that cape one day.