Conrad Burrows and the Spaniard

Conrad Burrows was twelve years old and lived with his parents in Littleover, on the outskirts of Derby.

He was a perfectly ordinary schoolboy, of average height and unremarkable appearance, apart from a considerable quantity of fair hair that appeared to have been constructed from several hundred individual lengths of nylon fishing line.

His parents, Alan and Jane Burrows, were considerably more interesting.

Alan was the sales manager at Hats & Hoovers, a thriving Derby establishment specialising in suction cleaning equipment and headwear. Jane worked in the accounts department of Massive Hats International Ltd, a once internationally celebrated manufacturer of hats whose current commercial interests were largely confined to Derbyshire and Ashburton.

Outside their professional lives, Alan and Jane were accomplished entertainers.

Alan played the trombone.

Jane juggled onions.

Together, they had formed a remarkably successful musical act known as Trombuggling.

In recent years they had been joined by their close friend Terry Stout, a six-foot-five former Birmingham resident who worked in the stockroom at Hats & Hoovers and possessed an extraordinary ability to impersonate the dancing movements of Snoop Dogg.

Terry's performances were entirely silent, owing to a strong Birmingham accent and a speech impediment that made vocal impersonation impractical.

The three performers had become affectionately known as The Trombugglers.

Their act was unusual, energetic and frequently difficult to explain.

Nevertheless, they remained in considerable demand.

And it was a booking on one particular Saturday morning that brought them into contact with a man named Alan Bowmont.

The Bellend of Burton

Alan Bowmont was not a pleasant man.

He was short, fat and possessed a face that seemed permanently arranged into an expression of dissatisfaction.

His suits were extraordinarily tight, particularly around the stomach and thighs, and his narrow trousers ended several inches above his ankles, revealing bare skin between the hems and his expensive leather shoes.

He never wore socks.

His preferred cologne was an overpowering fragrance of uncertain origin that could be detected several minutes before his arrival.

Unfortunately, it did little to disguise his breath, which was sufficiently unpleasant to cause nearby houseplants to reconsider their prospects.

Alan Bowmont was the owner and managing director of Amazing Secondary Glazing Ltd, a double-glazing company he had established in Leeds during the early 1980s.

The business had enjoyed considerable financial success.

This was surprising.

Bowmont's products were generally regarded as unreliable, his installation teams were frequently described as incompetent, and his sales techniques occupied an uncomfortable position somewhere between aggressive persuasion and outright intimidation.

He had nevertheless accumulated a small fortune.

His approach to selling was straightforward.

First, convince the customer that their existing windows were inadequate.

Second, persuade them that immediate replacement was essential.

Third, extract as much money as possible before they had an opportunity to reconsider.

He was particularly fond of elderly homeowners, whom he regarded as a promising commercial demographic.

His favourite sales technique involved announcing that a special discount would expire within seven minutes.

This discount was usually invented on the spot.

Occasionally he offered customers free installation, having already added the installation costs to the price of the windows.

His paperwork was bewildering.

His guarantees were vague.

His customer service department consisted of a telephone that was rarely answered.

Over the years, Amazing Secondary Glazing Ltd had accumulated an extraordinary number of complaints.

At one point, Bowmont was involved in more court proceedings than he had new customers.

He regarded this as evidence of his company's growing reputation.

"People don't take you to court unless they've heard of you," he would frequently announce.

His accountant had suggested that this was not an entirely reliable measure of commercial success.

Bowmont had dismissed the observation.

By the middle of the decade, he had decided that Leeds could no longer provide sufficient opportunities for his particular brand of enterprise.

He needed fresh territory.

After several months of research, he selected Burton-on-Trent.

He had spent considerable time canvassing the area, examining residential streets, assessing property values and identifying neighbourhoods whose inhabitants might be persuaded to replace perfectly serviceable windows.

He concluded that Burton represented an excellent opportunity.

The residents of Burton were less enthusiastic.

Within weeks of his arrival, Bowmont had acquired the unofficial title The Bellend of Burton.

He was unaware of this distinction.

Or, if he was aware, he appeared to regard it as a compliment.

His new showroom was to be the second premises in his expanding double-glazing empire.

The opening ceremony would be a grand occasion.

There would be balloons, refreshments, promotional leaflets and a special introductory offer on conservatory doors.

And, for reasons known only to himself, Bowmont had decided that the celebrations required live entertainment.

He booked The Trombugglers.

Fifty pounds is fifty pounds

Alan Burrows had initially been reluctant to accept the engagement.

He knew Bowmont by reputation.

So did Jane.

Terry had once encountered him at a trade exhibition and described the experience as being shouted at by a bastard!

Nevertheless, the booking offered fifty pounds for four hours of entertainment.

"Fifty quid," Alan observed.

"Between three of us," Jane replied.

"Still fifty quid."

"We'll have to pay for petrol."

"Yes."

"And lunch."

"Possibly."

"And onions."

Alan considered this.

"We've already got onions."

Jane looked thoughtful.

"Well, I suppose fifty quid is fifty quid."

Terry agreed.

He had recently purchased a particularly expensive pair of trainers and was keen to recover some of the expenditure.

The booking was accepted.

On the morning of the performance, the three entertainers loaded their equipment into the family's touring minivan.

Alan carefully secured his gleaming Vincent Bach trombone inside its protective case.

Jane packed five carefully selected onions into a padded shopping bag.

Terry brought his trainers, a portable speaker and a packet of cheese sandwiches.

Their performance was scheduled to begin at midday.

The journey to Burton would take approximately thirty minutes.

But before setting off, they had one small domestic responsibility.

Conrad needed a haircut.

The Incredible Hairdresser

At precisely eleven thirty, the touring minivan pulled up outside a hairdressing salon on London Road in Derby, not far from the Derbion shopping centre.

The establishment was called The Incredible Hairdresser.

Its proprietor was a gentleman named Bruce Banner.

Bruce was a man in his early sixties who had spent almost his entire working life cutting hair.

He had left school in 1979 at the age of sixteen and had been presented with two possible career opportunities.

One was an apprenticeship in hairdressing.

The other was a position at a local gamma-ray factory.

Bruce had considered both.

The gamma-ray factory offered slightly better wages, but the hairdressing apprenticeship included the possibility of occasional tips.

He chose hairdressing.

It was a decision he had never regretted.

At least, not seriously.

After completing his training, Bruce spent several years travelling between Yorkshire, Nottinghamshire and Derbyshire, supporting himself through a succession of short-term cash-in-hand hairdressing jobs.

He had worked in salons, barbershops, private homes and once, briefly, in the changing rooms of a cricket club.

His career had been respectable rather than spectacular.

Bruce was a competent stylist.

Not brilliant.

Not fashionable.

But reliable.

He could produce a reasonable short back and sides, a respectable trim and, when sufficiently motivated, a moderately convincing perm.

He also claimed to have once cut the hair of the actor Sir Alan Bates.

There was no evidence to support this.

Bruce maintained that the encounter had taken place many years earlier, before the actor became famous.

Whenever challenged, he would explain that Alan Bates had lived in the area and that the haircut had been paid for in cash.

Nobody had ever been able to prove him wrong.

Eventually, Bruce settled in Derby and opened his own salon.

He named it The Incredible Hairdresser.

The name amused him enormously.

He was particularly proud of a small sign mounted behind the reception desk.

It read:

IF YOU DON'T LIKE YOUR HAIRCUT, DON'T COMPLAIN. IT MIGHT MAKE ME ANGRY, AND YOU WOULDN'T LIKE ME WHEN I'M ANGRY.

Bruce considered this hilarious.

Unfortunately, shortly after installing the sign, he became concerned that somebody might accuse him of infringing a trademark or exploiting the reputation of a well-known fictional character.

For several weeks he considered removing it.

Then several months passed.

Then several years.

Twenty-five years later, the sign remained.

No legal proceedings had ever been initiated.

Bruce was quietly relieved.

Although he occasionally glanced at the post with a degree of apprehension.

Conrad's annual appointment

Conrad had been visiting The Incredible Hairdresser since he was four years old.

His parents considered regular haircuts important, although their definition of regular was somewhat generous.

Conrad visited Bruce once a year.

This was his eighth appointment.

Bruce knew him well.

Indeed, he rather liked the boy.

Conrad was polite, rarely complained and generally remained still throughout the procedure.

Unfortunately, his hair was another matter entirely.

It was thick, fair and possessed a peculiar resistance to conventional hairdressing equipment.

Bruce had once described it as resembling a nylon scrubbing brush.

Another time, after attempting to comb it into a side parting, he compared the experience to arranging the bristles of a particularly aggressive yard broom.

Nothing seemed capable of persuading Conrad's hair to lie flat.

Water was ineffective.

Hair gel achieved little.

A powerful hairdryer merely caused the individual strands to stand more enthusiastically upright.

Bruce had long since abandoned any ambition to create an actual hairstyle.

His objective was simply to make the hair shorter.

On this particular Saturday, Conrad climbed out of the minivan and adjusted his jacket.

Alan leaned across from the driver's seat.

"All right, son?"

"Yeah."

"Grandma's picking you up in about half an hour."

"Okay."

"Be good."

"Yeah."

Jane smiled.

"Have a nice haircut, darling."

Conrad nodded.

Terry waved from the back seat.

"See ya, our kid."

Conrad waved goodbye.

The minivan pulled away.

Inside, Alan was already discussing whether The Floral Dance would be appropriate for the opening of a double-glazing showroom.

Jane thought it might.

Terry suggested something by Snoop Dogg.

Nobody responded.

The minivan disappeared into the traffic.

Conrad turned towards the salon.

He pushed open the door.

A small bell rang above his head.

Bruce versus the hair

"Conrad!"

Bruce looked up from the reception desk.

"Morning, lad. Come on in."

"Morning, Bruce."

"Another year already?"

"Yeah."

"Blimey."

Bruce examined Conrad's head.

"Still got plenty of it, then."

Conrad nodded.

Bruce sighed.

"Right. Let's have a look."

He directed Conrad towards the large black styling chair in front of the main mirror.

Conrad climbed aboard.

Bruce fastened a protective rubber shoulder mat around his neck and draped a cutting cape over his clothes.

Then he stood back.

He examined the hair from the front.

Then the side.

Then the back.

He ran his fingers through it.

The hair resisted.

Bruce tried a comb.

The comb became temporarily trapped.

He removed it carefully.

"Been using anything on this, Conrad?"

"Shampoo."

"Right."

Bruce considered asking what sort.

Then decided it probably wouldn't help.

He collected his scissors.

"Same as usual?"

"Yeah."

"Just shorter?"

"Yeah."

Bruce nodded.

"Right you are."

The battle commenced.

For the first five minutes, Bruce concentrated on reducing the volume around Conrad's ears.

This required considerable effort.

The hair was so thick that individual sections seemed reluctant to separate from their neighbours.

Bruce snipped.

Combed.

Snipped again.

Small tufts fell onto the rubber shoulder mat.

He moved to the back.

The hair there was particularly stubborn.

At one point, Bruce attempted to lift a section with his comb and discovered that the entire arrangement sprang back into position the moment he released it.

"Extraordinary," he muttered.

Conrad stared at himself in the mirror.

He was used to this.

At the ten-minute mark, Bruce changed scissors.

At fifteen minutes, he fetched a spray bottle.

At eighteen minutes, he stood silently behind the chair, considering his options.

Then he resumed cutting.

By twenty-three minutes, a considerable quantity of fair hair had accumulated on the floor.

Bruce's forehead was damp.

His shoulders ached.

He made one final adjustment above Conrad's left ear.

Then stepped back.

He examined his work.

From the front.

From the side.

From the back.

It was difficult to identify precisely what had changed.

Conrad's hair looked almost exactly as it had twenty-five minutes earlier.

Only shorter.

Bruce considered this a satisfactory result.

"Right then, Conrad. All done."

He collected a small hand mirror.

Standing behind the chair, he positioned it carefully so Conrad could inspect the back of his head in the large wall mirror.

Conrad looked.

He tilted his head slightly.

Then nodded.

"That'll do, Bruce. That'll do!"

Bruce smiled.

It was the same response Conrad had given after every haircut for the previous five years.

"Good lad."

He brushed the loose hair from Conrad's shoulders.

Removed the rubber mat.

Unfastened the cape.

Conrad climbed down from the chair.

He reached into his pocket and produced a five-pound note.

Bruce accepted it.

"Thank you kindly."

Conrad glanced towards the window.

"Is it all right if I wait here a bit? My grandma's picking me up in ten minutes."

"Course it is, lad. Make yourself comfortable."

Bruce gestured towards a row of chairs.

Then turned to his next customer.

"Right then, who's next?"

A middle-aged gentleman rose from his seat and approached the styling chair.

Bruce smiled professionally.

"Just a trim, sir?"

The gentleman nodded.

"Nothing too drastic."

"Certainly."

Bruce reached for his scissors.

Conrad wandered towards the front window.

The Spaniard

Outside, London Road was busy with Saturday traffic.

Cars moved slowly between the junctions.

A delivery van was attempting to reverse into a narrow entrance.

Two pedestrians stood beside a crossing, apparently engaged in a disagreement about which direction they ought to walk.

Conrad watched without particular interest.

His grandmother was due shortly.

He wondered whether she might take him for something to eat.

Perhaps a sandwich.

Or chips.

He looked towards the approaching traffic.

A single-decker bus was making its way along London Road.

It was moving slowly, negotiating the congestion with the patient determination of a vehicle that had spent most of its working life doing precisely that.

As it approached The Incredible Hairdresser, the traffic ahead began to slow.

The bus reduced its speed.

Then slowed further.

Until it was moving at little more than walking pace.

Inside, seated beside one of the windows, was a man.

His name was Rafael García.

He was Spanish.

For no particular reason, Rafael turned his head towards the pavement.

His gaze moved across the shopfronts.

The passing pedestrians.

The traffic lights.

Then towards the large window of The Incredible Hairdresser.

Behind the glass stood a twelve-year-old boy with a freshly shortened mop of fair hair.

Their eyes met.

For the briefest of moments, neither moved.

Conrad stared.

Then, almost inaudibly, he whispered:

"Rafael."

The bus drove away.

THE END.