! Something For The Weekend? (2)

Friday mornings: As I follow Eric the barber to the pay counter, feeling scraped and trimmed and scented and almost younger, we slip into a familiar ritual, a little touch of theatre which takes us briefly out of ourselves or perhaps even into ourselves a little, come to think of it: 'Something for the weekend, sir? ' He doesn't say this sotto voce like the other barbers, but rather louder than normal in his ex-actor's voice to draw the whole shop into this moment of performance and assure any new customers that no offence is intended. The joke is of course my advanced age. You might call it post-everything irony. But there's just a touch of respect there too. His young assistant Rob who's giving expert attention to the young guy in the other chair, with that intimate proficiency which the young now bestow on the grooming of their peers, but who doesn't miss a beat, rolls his eyes heavenward at this sally though this stale camp mannerism can't quite hide his affection for his employer. He gives me a quick glance of acknowledgement across the chasm of age. These little routines and rituals and performances give shape to the week. But hanging unvoiced in the air is the knowledge that one more rent rise and it's curtains for this establishment. That is the stage direction that is not spoken in the script.