Braceys Barber Shop

For years I was content with my mum sticking a bowl over my head and slicing off every hair left exposed with a penknife and spork. But then my teenage years came along and with it the feeling that I should man up and go the barbers like all adults of the male persuasion. I walked into Bracey’s, the local hair-​cuttery, and plonked myself down in one of the chairs, moronically oblivious to the fact that if you do that, you’re a tit.
The people waiting just smirked and instead of slapping me across the back of the neck with a belt, Old Man Bracey just smiled and said «You’re keen aren’t you?» What a twerp I was.
A proper barber shop, the likes of which I though only existed in 1950s Richard Attenborough films, Bracey’s is a kindly place where nonsense is left outside so men can do manly things, like talk about the Korean War while a cut-​throat razor flirts with their jugular. If it wasn’t for the fact my mum won a Swiss Army knife at a raffle, I’d come here whenever I need a trim.