Wherever we may end up in life or whatever we might achieve, we can rest assured there there is something out there which will always be able to level the playing field. Out of sight and out of mind, perhaps in an rarely used obsolete drawer, or maybe deliberately stashed away in a dusty box in the loft, is that school photo… You know the one I’m talking about, the photo that documents the instant in time when your childhood haircut was the epitome of cool, and you were, if only for the briefest moments, the height of fashion. We’ve all got one somewhere, so don’t try to pretend you don’t.

Now if you’re lucky, that photo will remain hidden for many years, perhaps only making a brief appearance to your nearest and dearest. If you’re unlucky, then the photo in question might feature at a birthday party, stag do, or another equally embarrassing moment, and if you’re really unlucky, then that photo will have been confiscated by your parents and not-so-stealthily hidden on the wall of their front room wall for anyone to discover.

The photo montage that has replaced the wall of my parent’s front room stands as a bastion of social history, documenting the fluid transition of youth hairstyles in the mid to late 90s: there’s the infant school photo of me sporting a rather daring right angled ‘step’ shaved into the back of my head; then moving forward a few years there is the more mature junior school photo where my hair has started to rebel from its previously rigid design and has evolved into the height of 1995 fashion – the fluffy curtains; and then to mark the arrival of the new millennium there are the multiple secondary school photos featuring the legendary Essex school boy hair cut - the 'short back and sides'.

With a handsome helping of wet look gel and a perfectly combed quiff at the front, only Lego men have a more rigid and long lasting haircut than me, and it was an enduring feature on top of my scalp from the age of 11 until the first few years of university – A look so classic that I’m sure UNESCO are in the process of giving it protected status.

Although it has only been a mere four months since my last proper haircut, (if you discount the self-scissored-sideburn-snip a few weeks ago) the tropical Tuvaluan heat seems to have been working its magic on my follicles, and I once again have cultivated quite an impressive clump of hair on top of my head. Despite the morbid curiosity to see how big it can actually get, it is getting rather hot under there, and the wayward curls are getting in the way of my snorkelling mask (which is definitely the reason I am yet to catch any fish, and anything else you hear is just a lie, okay?)

Decision made, I set out to experience my first Tuvaluan hair cut…

First thing to note about hairdressers in Tuvalu – there aren’t any. Confusingly, there is a beautifully painted sign which advertises all the services a barber shop has to offer, but upon further investigation it was only teasing me, and the ancient barber’s chair within has become a comfortable shop keepers chair, from which the shop keeper can look quizzically at a scruffy looking palagi asking about a haircut.

Not to be deterred, I went on with my enquiries and continued to be meet with strange looks as if I was asking about cutting my fingers off instead of my hair, I just didn’t make sense. I knew there had to be some sort of hairdressing facilities somewhere due to the number of quite unique styles I had seen riding about on the backs of motorbikes, no one’s hair grows naturally into a tiger striped Mohawk does it?

Perhaps cutting hair on the island had become illegal and had moved underground, perhaps there was a whole seedy hairdressing underworld where scissors and razors were traded for large amounts of money and rum, and people meet to drink, shout, and bet on the latest snipping competition – “the first rule about snip club is you do not talk about snip club!” Or perhaps it was because people just cut their own hair…

Posing with my Tuvaluan curls taking shape...

I confided in my friend Peyster, trying to see if he would betray the first rule of ‘snip club’, but he just shrugged and confirmed that people simply cut their own hair, adding that he could cut mine if I wanted him to. I was slightly disappointed at having to let go of the seedy snipping underworld, but I had finally found a Tuvaluan hairdresser (of sorts), and was ready to create a brand new look which perhaps would one day star on my own front room photo montage wall.

Returning an hour later, I paid special attention to all the potential styles passing me on the back of their motorbikes. They ranged from the simple crew cut, to the more audacious combination of mohawk and mullet (a 'mohlet' or ‘mulhawk’?). In fact, on closer inspection there was an extremely high mohlet density in the 20-30 male age group and a knot began to form in my stomach.

In addition to the mulhawks there were several DIY highlighting jobs done with a variety of colours and household bleach, and perhaps most alarmingly, a number of long, thin, beaded plats hanging off the back of even the most closely shaven heads.

In my experience, walking into a hairdressers can range from the fancy to the functional. There might be a range of treatments with high-end products, or maybe your encounter will be limited to a few nods and the arbitrary talk about holidays past, present, and future, either way - you know exactly what to expect.

What you normally don’t expect is a lonely, rusty chair sat in the sand between two palm trees with a man next to it smiling, smoking, and sharpening an extremely large knife, checking its sharpness periodically on the back of his head – Totally normal hairdressing behaviour...

Checking the progress with help of Peyster's motorbike mirror...

Peyster soon arrived with a grin on his face and introduced me to the knife wielding maniac – ladies and gentlemen, my hairdresser! (Perhaps snip club isn’t a myth after all) He stopped sharpening his knife long enough for me to shake his hand which is when I realised that he was shaking quite violently all over. He went back to his sharpening duties, and Peyster, obviously noticing my alarm grinned and told me not to worry, “he only shakes like that because he hasn’t had a drink yet, we’ll make sure he has something to drink before he cuts your hair”. I hoped he was joking, but agreed that given the current situation, taking up drinking didn’t sound like a bad idea.

Shaky Joe continued sharpening his knife and testing it on the back of his head whilst Peyster headed into his house and brought out a pair of electric clippers and an extension lead. Plugging the clippers into the wooden deck we were now sitting on, he trailed the lead across the dirt floor towards the stark looking rusty chair which was looking more and more intimidating as time went on.

I was drinking sweet boiled todi to calm my nerves, whilst my new hairdresser was apparently drinking something much stronger to calm his shaking hands – I really hoped it did the trick. He motioned towards the chair, and I tentatively sat as Shaky Joe approached with a confident swagger that did little to quell the rising tension; trepidation quickly turned to fear as he picked up the clippers and started to swing them around as he asked me what sort of style I wanted.

I had resigned myself to accepting whatever disaster was about to befall my hair, so wasn’t really prepared for this question; I started frantically looking around for inspiration, but with no hairdressing magazines available, and a distinct lack of black and white 80s head shots on the wall (walls were not a luxury afforded by this salon), I pointed to a conveniently placed bald man and said “NO” as convincingly as I could. I followed up by grabbing the hair at the back of my head, making a buzzing noise, and then making the international hand signal for “Short back and sides, and a little off the top please”.

Excellent symmetry thanks to Joe's steady hands...

Shaky Joe instantly sprung to life taking away any opportunity for me to change my mind, and was soon randomly shaving a path through the curly mass at the back of my head. Stopping sporadically to take a drag of his cigarette, he was certainly making short work of the back and sides. After 5 minutes of boisterous buzzing, he took a step back and admired his handiwork. Seemingly pleased with his progress, he then turned to me and asked what I thought. Unfortunately, as well as lacking walls, Shaky Joe’s salon also doesn’t have any mirrors, so Peyster jumped down from his deck and proceeded to take the mirror off his motorbike, handing it to me as he tried to stifle a giggle.

Peering into the mirror I was bemused – Although the back and sides were undoubtedly shorter, the bulk that remained looked like a topiary mushroom made of human hair! I sort of looked as if I should be sporting a neon tracksuit or some dungarees in a 90s rap video, or failing that, I could now claim to be the world’s absolute worst Grace Jones impersonator! suffice to say, it wasn’t ideal.

I tried to express these references to Shaky Joe but he didn’t seem to fully get it, so gripping the hairy mushroom (not a euphemism I can assure you) I tried to convey the idea of just taking a small amount off the top to level it out a little. A knowing smile crossed Shaky Joe’s face and happy that the buzzing wasn’t over he got back to work taking yet more chunks out of my hair, seemingly at random.

The end result - posing on my motorbike to try and make my hair look cooler than it actually is...

By the time Joe had finished, a crowd of local children had gathered to see this ridiculous spectacle unfold, perhaps they were confused as to why I was clutching a motorbike mirror and an orange comb, or perhaps they were wondering why I was letting this enthusiastic yet unconventional hairdresser loose on my hair, either way the amassed crowds collectively held their breath as Shaky Joe turned off the clippers for what I hoped would be the last time.

I peered into the mirror – no more Grace Jones, but definitely still a hint of 90s rap video, I smiled the smile of a relieved man, and shook Shaky Joe’s hand to rapturous applause from the gathered audience. I had survived my first Tuvaluan haircut experience, and although it’s not exactly even and a little rough round the edges, an old woman has already described my new do as “beautiful” and the kids have only been laughing at me a little more than usual, so I am putting it down as a roaring success.

I’m now off to buy a neon tracksuit, and to ring ‘Bell Biv DeVoe’ to see if they have any vacancies in their backing dancers.

Bad Hair Day

© Andy Browning 2012