So I took a seat and waited. The day was due to begin at nine am and although I had been a little early the time had now moved on while I waited. I sat on the same chair I had sat on at the interview and from time to time (probably every thirty seconds or so, but it seemed longer) I tried a long loud series of knocks on the door. Still nothing. I put my ear next to the door and listened. Not a sound. Five past nine came and went and by now I was in a right panic. I knew I was in the right place but nevertheless several times I pulled my copy of the itinerary out of my jacket pocket and re-checked it. Nope. I was completely, definitely sitting outside the right room. It was by now ten past nine and I knocked loudly on the door more in panic than anything, just as I noticed Hank rounding the corner of the long corridor and heading in my direction.
The suitcase/ batteries (whichever explanation you chose to use. I had one for the batteries, but not one for the suitcases. Maybe he was in a perpetual state of anticipation of a holiday. Who knows? ) were still in his hands, but I finally settled on what was peculiar about his walk. I had had a vague feeling of unease since I had first met him but could not quite put a finger on what it was that was particularly odd about it. I got it now as he headed towards me up the corridor. I realised that when he walked his head never moved from side to side. It was if he was focused on something just on the horizon that only he could see and that he was heading towards it without fuss, at his own pace, but that his attention never wavered from it at all. Eventually he reached where I sat and stopped dead in front of me. He did not turn, but remained in profile. In his usual monotone voice he asked, “Can I help you, Luke?”
I pulled my itinerary out of my pocket at waved it at Hank’s side. “I have an appointment with Professor Wingnut at nine am.” I spluttered. Hank didn’t move at all. “Green light room.” I finished. Again Hank didn’t move, though I thought I may have noticed his ear twitch slightly. Suddenly he spun to face me and his left eye twinkled slightly.
“The professor doesn’t respond to knocks.” he said in his same emotionless monotone voice. I looked at my itinerary again almost in accusation. “Just go in.” I gave him my best friendly smile and as I went to turn the handle on the door it suddenly shot open, the professor glancing around the corner of the door as if waiting for me, his wild white hair just as crazy and seemingly wind swept as the first time I had met him. As he saw me he waved his arm impatiently, and disappeared from view. His voice from within the room however was loud and unmistakable.
“Come on, Luke!” he shouted, though I now couldn’t actually see him. “We have to get a haircut!” I walked into the room and drew to a halt, looking around me. The professor was standing by the double French doors, pulling a small tweed jacket over his lab coat.
“A haircut?” I gasped out of breath, and the professor nodded vigorously before pulling the French windows open more and running out onto the lawn. I gazed around the Green Light room. Everything seemed more or less exactly the same as the only other time I had been in here. The book shelves, the furniture; same large desk. If anything the desk maybe looked a little more untidy than it had before, if that was indeed possible. The professor popped his head back around the large French windows once more, and scooped up a large piece of paper from the desk.
“Come on, Luke!” he exclaimed almost in exasperation. “We will be moving from blue to purple in…” he paused to consult his wristwatch, squinting at it through his small, smeared glasses, “Fifteen minutes!” With that he was gone.
As I stood open mouthed I moved to the French windows and spied the professor pausing at a line of trees across the lawn, gesticulating wildly. I ran out of the door and made a shortcut diagonally across the grass as I suspected that Wingnut was heading for the car park at the head of the drive.
It crossed my mind that if anyone was watching me from the windows then they may have thought I had lost the plot to be honest. I scooted across the lawn shouting after Wingnut to slow down, my shirt tails flapping in the breeze after me. Eventually I caught him up in the car park just as he opened the door of a very old mini and clambered inside. I stopped to get my bearings. This car park seemed to be much bigger than the one I had been used to, but looking around to get my bearings I could see that it was definitely the same car park I always arrived at and departed from. Just a hell of a lot more cars. I stood there mouth open, thinking it also looked a lot more modern than I remembered it. My attention however was interrupted by the professor leaning across the seat of the mini and winding the window down. “Come on Luke!” he yelled. “The barbers will be red at this rate!” I clasped the door handle of the car and jumped in. I had no idea what Wingnut was on about. And he was driving!
He reversed the car out of its parking space and we made our way out of the car park onto the main drive. There certainly seemed to be a lot more lamp posts than I had previously noted! The professor had folded the piece of paper he had taken from the desk and at the moment it obscured a small square of the windscreen. I searched in vain for a seat belt, and finding that there didn’t actually seem to be one, decided to grasp tight hold of the seat instead.
Reaching the end of the drive and turning right we left the office behind us and we were on the main road. I noticed all kinds of details I hadn’t on the previous occasions I had travelled on the road. Plenty more traffic as well. Quite busy in fact.
“So how are you finding your first week, Luke?” asked the professor as we passed under a small railway bridge that seemed rusted; old and definitely not in use any more. Vegetation seemed to hand down from the parapet over the edge of the bridge itself. In some ways it seemed quite quaint, and I wondered casually why it was so overgrown.
“Very well thank you, professor Wingnut” I said, smiling at the professor as he negotiated his way along what presumably passed as an A road in these parts. We had turned off the main road and the difference in this lane was quite marked. Bits of it looked more like a goat track to me as we got further and further away from the office.
“Oh no need to use my full name.” he smiled, narrowly missing a small duck that seemed to have wandered into the road. I clung to the seat a little tighter as the professor continued to accelerate down the very narrow lane. “Just “professor” will suffice.” and he lifted his glasses off his prominent nose and gave a broad wink.
“Okay. Erm... Professor.” I said, as the car continued to accelerate. “Nice car you have here.” I had noticed just how new and clean the inside of the car was, and although it had no seat belts which more or less made it an original model from the early sixties, it had clearly been well looked after as it was in such a good condition.
“I am a bit of an antique car collector you’ll find.” He said. “The Rover is mine too. The one you were collected from the station in. This one is much more economical to run though. Three Fairclough’s to the gallon you know!”
“Right.” I said. “Three Fairclough’s, eh? Who would have thought it?” The professor tapped the wheel again, and giving a big proud of himself kind of smile beeped the horn loudly three times. The sheep in a nearby field looked startled as we drove past, passing a sign that read, “Caldecott One Mile” by the side of the road.
The village when we reached it very soon after was a typical sleepy English village. Or more likely, what most chocolate tin manufacturers would consider to be a typical sleepy English village. There was a small circular parking area surrounded by a quaint village green, around which were clustered a few small shops, and then the road leading back out of the village. That was it. I spent the first five minutes looking for a pond, but there didn’t seem to be one. The professor pulled the handbrake on and turned off the engine, before snatching the large piece of paper he had brought with him from the dashboard. He quickly unfolded it and placed it on his knee.
It appeared to be some kind of multi coloured spreadsheet. Leaning across to have a look I could see that the days of the week (excluding Sunday) were the fields across the top, and the vert
ical column seemed to be the hours of the day between 9am and 5pm in fifteen minute increments. Although there were a few gaps uncoloured on the spreadsheet, most were carefully shades in lots of different colours right across the colours of the rainbow. I read across the days of the week to Friday, then down to 9 am which was coloured red, 9.15 which was orange, 9.30 which was purple, and 9.45 which was blue. 10am followed it, which was back to purple. I glanced at the professor who was busy poring over the spreadsheet, and took note that most of Saturday morning seemed to be red. I looked at my watch. 9.40 am. The professor poked the coloured in cell marked as 9.45am and folding it carefully, placed it in one of his jacket pockets.
“Come on, Luke!” he shouted. “Time for a haircut!” and leapt out from the car, making his way across the village green towards a small glass fronted shop with a red and white barbers pole painted on both of the bright wide windows, and the small red front door as well. I hadn’t expected the professor to lock the car door of course, but I had expected him to close the car door. Maybe this was what my job was actually all about, following him round closing doors after him! Reflecting upon this I closed mine and making my way around the car I shut it for him, before following him at a brisk pace across the village green.
Depressingly, the sign above the barbers seemed to be of the same pun filled area of shop naming as all other barber shops, and was called, “Mullet Over”. I have absolutely no idea why barber’s shops simply have to have a pun in the title. “A Cut Above”, “Cliptomania”, “Hair Today Gone Tomorrow”, Though I do have to admit a rather sneaking admiration for the one I had once seen called, “The Grateful Head.” Mostly however it is completely beyond me. Maybe it is some kind of hairdressing tradition? Who knows? I caught the professor up. He was stood outside the barber’s shop, his nose more or less pressed up against the glass window. He tutted loudly to himself, muttering, before pulling the paper from his jacket pocket once again and studying it carefully. He barely noted my arrival, but thrust the paper at me.
“Is this cell here blue, Luke?” he enquired, and I had a look at it.
“It is.”
“Quite irregular!” he muttered loudly, taking the spreadsheet from me once again. “Yet there are three people waiting to get their hair cut!” he said almost in disbelief. I peered through the window and yes, there did seem to be two men seated on the chair beside the entrance. Two hairdressers were busy cutting the hair of a further two customers. One was a small short woman, the other a tall-ish blonde man dressed in skinny jeans and tight T shirt. He was snipping away flamboyantly at the person seated in his chair, hair flying here and there. From time to time he would stop, wave the scissors or comb about, talking to the mirror and then continuing. This routine was quite mesmeric. Almost as if he was dancing. I thought that maybe he looked a little older than his clothes would suggest though. In fact, he looked a little like at least two of the members of Erasure. In fact, the only reason he did not look like all of the members of Erasure was because I was not entirely sure how many member of Erasure there had actually been.
“What is the spreadsheet for, professor?” I asked as he pressed his nose up against the glass again. Inside the shop the tall man finished cutting his customers hair and with a flourish pulled the cover from him, almost dancing behind him with a mirror to show him the cut at the back of his head. The professor tore his attention away from the shop and pushed the spreadsheet into my hands once again.
“Years of observation and recording.” he said, pulling a purple pencil from his pocket and re-colouring the 9.45am slot from blue to purple. “Every time I pass this shop I take careful note of the number of people waiting for a haircut and depending on the number waiting record it on the master sheet her, old boy.” he said, putting the pencil back into the depths of his pocket. It was the first time he had called me that, but it would certainly not be the last. It never stopped being irritating though.
“So blue is good, and red is bad?” I asked and the professor nodded furiously.
“Indeed.”
“But surely it changes all the time?” I asked and the professor actually looked disappointed.
“Not at all.” he said. “The conjunction of required haircuts is a constant that can only be affected by the availability of said cuttees. Clearly there is an aberration of some kind. I shall check this with my master sheet back at my office.” He looked disappointed, and folded up the sheet and put it in yet another pocket. “Never mind. Still, let us enter.”
“We could wait a little.” I said.
“Indeed we could, Luke. Hence the existence of my recorded data in the first place.” He opened the door and made to enter. “Nobody likes to wait for a haircut, Luke.” he sniffed and entered the shop. I paused holding the door open as a younger man in a “Regulus Telecom” T shirt exited bearing a brand new haircut. He smiled his thanks and went on his way. Grimacing at the professors back - he hadn’t even noticed the departing customer, never mind holding the door for him - I followed him through the door and took a seat.
By now the male hairdresser was snipping away at his new customer, and the girl was pulling the cover off her current one. That left one more for her and then we were next. I had thought that I didn’t really need a haircut, but seeing as how I was there I may as well get it done. Especially if I was being paid to get a haircut. The professor seemed to settle into the manner of most men waiting for a haircut: complete lack of eye contact, reading a paper or fiddling with a mobile phone. The professor did the former though he did at one point pull the spreadsheet from his pocket, peer at it closely before tutting very loudly and then putting it back into his inside pocket.
This drew the attention of the male barber, who looked the professor up and down once, sniffed and then turned back to face the man whose hair he was cutting in the chair, talking to him through the mirror. “Twenty-five years in show business!” he exclaimed loudly, before continuing talking to the captive customer. I couldn’t quite make out what else he was saying, but I did notice the man in the chair squirm from time to time. The girl next to him was well into cutting her customers hair by now. She paused, looking for something below the mirror.
“Have you got the clippers, Les?” she asked and the tall male barber made a dramatic bow and plucked the clippers from below the counter before passing them on to the girl, who was still looking for them below her side of the counter.
“Here we are Sandy.” he said, passing them to her. The professor tutted loudly and Les gave him a look that should have killed, but Wingnut was completely oblivious, and just carried on glaring at the two hairdressers. Eventually Les seemed to decide to ignore him and went back to talking at his customer. Sandy finished before Les and so once done the professor was more or less hopping from foot to foot and once she asked who was next he shot into the now vacant chair and asked for a trim. In my opinion Les seemed to have been taking his time so that Sandy was the first to finish, and once the professor was safely ensconced in her chair then he seemed to suddenly finish with his customer and then it was my turn.
Les settled the cover over me and looking at me in the mirror asked me what cut I wanted. I settled on a short trim too, and Les picked up his scissors and began. There was a short pause as he began snipping at my hair and then he paused, caught my eye in the mirror and said loudly, “Twenty-five years in acting! Who would have thought it?” Wriggling in my chair slightly I sighed inwardly, caught his eye once again and replied,
“Really?” and then we were off.
Ten minutes later we were both stood outside the barbers. I’ll give him his due, Les did a good cut, but I had been subjected to a very precise and exacting account of his long and exciting career in amateur dramatics, the people he had worked with, what he referred to as his stage reviews and so on. I was just nodding in agreement towards the end but he kept checking I was listening by catching my eye in the mirror. There was only one interruption to the listing of his long and illustrious career which
was when the professor’s cut was done and he left, calling to me that he would wait outside until I was done. Les watched him leave in the mirror, the professor bending over just behind me to retrieve his spreadsheet which had dropped out of his ever expanding jacket pocket and once the shop door closed behind me he poked me on the shoulder.
“Did he not like his hair?” Les asked, staring wistfully into the mirror in front of me, clutching his bright yellow comb like a dagger.
“No idea.” I said. “I guess not. He has after all just had it cut.” In all truth when I had seen the professor leave the barber’s chair his hair did not actually look any different at all.
“Yes.” hissed Les impatiently, “But he had it cut yesterday.” He paused, the comb held up against cheek like firmly as if trying to draw blood. “And the day before, come to think of it.”
“I think he’s a little eccentric.” I whispered and Les raised an eyebrow, preparing to return to his acting credentials.
The Complete Adventures of Victoria Neaves & Romney Page 42
