Pub Life: Cool Hair

Cool hair mod.

Midday, a busy pub but with conversation at murmur level, and subtle grey light on dark wood.

Enter The Mod, a styl­ish lad in his ear­ly twen­ties in design­er par­ka and suede moc­casins, car­ry­ing an embroi­dered car­pet bag. He buys a pint and sits with his back to the wall.

A few min­utes pass before The Big Lad makes his approach. His eyes are locked on The Mod as he steams across the open bar, clear­ly more than one pint into his ses­sion.

He stops a short dis­tance away and points, just points, for an uncom­fort­ably long moment.

Fuck­ing. Cool. Hair.”

He means it very sin­cere­ly, sounds almost emo­tion­al.

The Mod laughs awk­ward­ly.

Oh, right, yeah, ta.”

The Big Lad hasn’t fin­ished.

No, I mean it. It’s fuck­ing bril­liant. Absolute­ly mint.”

The Mod rais­es his glass.

Thanks, man.” (Mean­ing: now go away.)

No, lis­ten, seri­ous­ly… If I was as good look­ing as you, I’d go out and get that hair­cut today. The girls wouldn’t know what hit ‘em.”

Silence. Shift­ing in seats. The Big Lad’s wheez­ing breath.

Then, remem­ber­ing his pri­ma­ry mis­sion, he lurch­es away into the gents toi­let, smash­ing through doors like a bull­doz­er.

The Mod exhales and slides down in his seat.

Fuckin’ ‘ell.”

Every­one sit­ting near­by laughs, in sol­i­dar­i­ty and relief.

Nobody ever com­pli­ments my hair,” says a bald man, and there is more laugh­ter.

The the door of the gents flies open and every­body freezes as The Big Lad bursts out, still fid­dling with his fly.

He fix­es swim­ming eyes on The Mod.

Cool. Hair.”

Fin­ger guns, a thumbs up, and he’s gone.

A nice relax­ing pint.