I have found a smart men’s salon on the other side of town. It’s a barbershop ++, that is, a full service salon with massages and the like.
I happen to be in the area so I decide to pop in. It’s only my second time but on entering I may as well be a decades-old patron. The chap who attended to me last time has a twinkle of recognition in his eyes as I approach. He leads me to the chair and remarks rather ruefully “it’s been a long time”. I smile and say something anodyne when actually I’m thinking, “hang on, long time? I was here three weeks ago, mate. Any more often than that and I’ll be paying rent”.
The place seems empty, staff stand around and I get the feeling, like last time, that this new establishment is not pulling in the punters, despite it being the weekend.
I tell him I just want him to shape up my beard. I estimate a quick fifteen minutes and I’ll be out of there. He dutifully re-shapes, although the process of doing so seems to have more tiers than a billionaire’s wedding cake. First the lubrication, then the blade, then some powder, then aftershave, then moisturizer. Then a hot towel. And, I think, another moisturizer (I’m losing track). Then a head massage. Then a neck massage. Then his massaging digits have travelled down to my shoulders and then triceps (he stops short of my elbows I’m happy to report). Then he shapes up the hair at my neckline. And then we’re back to the hot towel on the face. And, without missing a beat, he goes to work on my nose like some kind of micro-facial.
All the while I sit there quietly, unquestioning, eyes closed, relaxed but increasingly nonplussed by the thought of how far the definition of “beard shaping” can be plausibly stretched, and whether this establishment has any discernible policy addressing concepts like, you know, customer consent.
I just behave as if there’s an unspoken understanding between my friend and me that this is the kind of automatic “added value” that the more discerning customer expects. As if when I sat in the chair and said “can you just shape my beard please?” that any self-respecting barber would immediately understand that I won’t be best pleased if I leave the chair without my head, neck, shoulders, nose, and triceps attended to.
I initially assume the lack of customers has bored him senseless and that he wants to stretch out the time he has with me through a slow and random combination of massages. Then I realize he’s doing something more. He is giving me a mini sampler of all the salon’s menu items: like 5ml sample sachets of moisturizer or the “mini-trio” of desserts at a restaurant. He knows I’m not going to suddenly sit bolt upright and declare “By Jove, I came here for a beard-shaping but you’ve made me realise that what I really want is a Balinese massage: to hell with the beard, let’s get to work on these glutes!” No. He is up-giving now as a future up-sell. Genius.
At the end, when he’s done (and like the multiple faux-endings of the Lord of the Rings film trilogy I’m not actually sure when it is the end), he politely enquires “anything else?” Apart from a mani-pedi, I can’t imagine there is.
As I leave, several staff are still lounging around, unoccupied. I was only there for a beard-shaping and I ponder “how many beard-shapings would it take to cover the monthly wage bill?” A lot, I guess.
Later, I’m at my local shopping complex, ten minutes walk from my home, and I spot a new unit opening soon. It’s a full service men’s salon. I’m quite pleased by this discovery until a picture enters my head: my friend, on the other side of town, sitting there, patiently, blade and hot towel at the ready, ruefully staring towards the front window, waiting for me to return.
I’m torn. I don’t want him to give up, so maybe I’ll keep letting him up-give. I mean, it’s no skin off my nose. Well…