Cut it out!!

As society’s foundations continue to crumble beneath our feet, it seems that every week thousands more people find themselves joining some exponentially expanding queue.

There are waiting lists for everything these days (says the 27-year-old, becoming aware that he is sounding way more grumpy-old-man than he is whippersnapper).

But it’s true; they’re unavoidable.

There are dental queues, cancer queues, bank queues, cardiac queues, Ticketmaster queues, GP queues, mind your Ps and Qs or you’ll get a pool cue to the cue ball queues.

Joking aside though, and I promise I have not contrived this to augment my argument, last week I watched on in astonishment as a colleague tried to book their MOT, only to be forced to wait in an online queue before being admitted to the online queue.

No joke! Queues for queues.

It is an almost-axiomatic belief of mine that little in this world is black and white, good or bad. However, when it comes to queues, it was always my opinion that they were the one evil force that united us all.

Queues are anathema to everyone, all of the time. Or so I thought…

You see, just the other day I heard about a queue that made me laugh. In fact, not only did I laugh, but the glee-filled guffaw that raced from my respirators seemed to carry in it a hint of sadism, causing me to briefly question my humanity.

Apparently, some barber shops about the town are currently taking ‘appointments’ no less than a month in advance.

Not hairdressers, barbers!

Now, call me old-fashioned (I’ll probably like it), but I thought that a trip to the snippers was a case of dandering in off the street, possibly after a lock of pints, maybe even smoking a fag, and asking for the ‘same as last time, big lad’.

But those days are gone, so I am told.

Nowadays, a man who wants a razor ran over his head, or a disturbed teenager who wants a rotten mullet dug into his mass of curls, has to book online about four weeks before he steps foot in the shop.

Initially, when I laughed at this, I thought it was out of badness.

You see, I am a hairdresser’s son, thus these waiting lists have no bearing on my life. Therefore, I feared my laugh was one of the saved poking fun at the damned.

However, under further examination, I realised it was something else: It was gutteral cry of justice.

“What are ye on about justice, ye slabber?,” you ask with the insolence of the ignorant.

See, you probably think that having a professional trimmer for a mother would be the dream; handy haircuts on demand.

Not true.

In fact, if I want the bop chopped, I have to start campaigning a few weeks out, holding one-man-rallies in the kitchen and writing cajoling, heartfelt missives.

Actually, here’s an extract from my last one, just to give you a sense of the lengths I have to go to.

“Dear Ann, it is two months since my strands last felt the sharp side of your scissors, and by Jesus did you do a good job, talented as you are. Which reminds me, I have a rather important event (a few pints) coming up with some rather important people (the boys) in a rather sophisticated establishment (McCann’s). If I land looking hirsute and unpresentable, I fear it will reflect badly on the wider family, and maybe even you, which is more than any of us could bear, given the esteem our community holds you in. Accordingly, to protect your reputation and make me look less of an oaf, if it is not too much trouble, I would like you to pencil me in for a chop, at your convenience, of course. Yours truly, your groveling and unkempt son, Emmet.”

Three weeks have passed since I sent that letter and still no word. It’s looking like I’m going to have to get booking or else get the bowl out.