I haven’t had a shave and a haircut for two months, not since I got a porno moustache and my wife was so perturbed that I had to go and hide in Seattle until my beard was sufficiently regrown. I did get my beard trimmed slightly four weeks ago, but with the heat and humidity in Singapore, everything grows rapidly, and my facial hair was starting to interfere with my ability to safely eat soup, kiss my wife, not be mistaken for a privet hedge, and so on.
Further, my wife had begun a campaign of unremitting cruelty, pointing out to me the white hairs that are sprouting. If there’s one thing that leads to white hairs, it’s stress, and if there’s one thing that leads to stress, it’s your wife telling you you’re getting white hairs in your moustache.
After work, after going far into the hinterlands (Tai Seng) to collect our (hopefully) repaired laptop, I went back across town to my barbershop, Hounds of The Baskervilles, in Bugis.
I like the name, but I don’t know why they chose it. There is a distinct lack of large dogs covered in fluorescent paint, or indeed violin-playing, drug addicted detectives, but I suppose it’s not up to me what they call themselves.
There are always too many customers at the Hound, so even with an appointment you can expect to be waiting for half an hour before you’re seen to. While it’s fun to sit there, surrounded by knick-knacks, gee-gaws and all the tattooing paraphernalia that decorates the place, I was starving so I ducked around the corner for a swift falafel burger. Perhaps I knew it was my last opportunity for some time to get mayonnaise in my moustache.
As luck would have it, I was in the barber’s chair just a few minutes after I arrived, which was good because it took over an hour to transform me from wild man of the forest back into something respectable. A particularly diligent moustache trim, scissoring errant hairs from my top lip instead of just strumming away with the clippers, means I’ve retained my bushy moustache and still cleared access to my mouth. An hour well spent.