Quality Street Today

No doubt about it, Victoria Station needed a new roof alright, damn thing looked ready to peel open like a sardine can. The amount of water came in too - you felt like a bloody sardine yourself some mornings. Still, there was a sense of history about the place; it hadn’t changed much, just deteriorated. I made the walk to Manchester Victoria every day, from one end of Deansgate at Castlefield, to the other at the Cathedral, behind which was the old station. I caught the tram from Victoria to Bury where I worked. I could have caught it in Castlefield where I lived, but I enjoyed the daily walk, and was the slimmest I’d been for a long while because of it. Often, if I was at court in the mornings, I’d go straight to the Civil Justice Centre just off the middle of Deansgate - then jump on a tram from Victoria afterwards. Today was such a day. Now, the unspoken perk of being a solicitor was not the money or the glamour, there was none of that, it was the tastes of freedom you got following an out of office commitment, nobody keeping tabs on you, provided you didn’t take the piss. It was therefore always a good opportunity to run a few errands or pick up a few bits in town, and I needed a haircut. It wasn’t until I was walking through Victoria that I remembered this, catching site of one of the old barber’s shops in there. The one I used on occasion was a one man band who had either shut down or gone away, so I thought I’d give the other a try. It was full of old boys chewing the fat, most of the chairs were occupied, but it soon became apparent that nobody was waiting for a haircut, except me, and I was ushered into the barber’s chair on entry. The place was as traditional as it got, a well used, well maintained working environment that could keep on providing a service for as long as it was serviced in the manner to which it was clearly accustomed. The tools were sharp and bold, and as old as the place itself, you didn’t see mahogany handled brushes with best silver tipped badger bristles, the handles shining with use, this was rare. You certainly didn’t see straight razors with three pin horn handles and double transverse stabilisers, barbers of the day favoured clippers, gangsters; guns. These old boys had a nice array of hats, if indeed they belonged to them, it could be they adorned the hat stand on display, but who was I to say, they’d all seen better days. They wore tatty suits like you might see down a bookies or propping the bar in Wetherspoon’s, some wore tracksuits, others jeans and jackets. The barber favoured a long pressed black smock with collar, pockets for his tools, grey trousers and brogues. His silver hair greased back neatly and not a day over seventy. A younger man walked in, he was of the same ilk, but all flash and bravado; there was talk of a scam’s workings, and of getting the Bentley in. Just quiet enough for me not to hear, although remarkably my barber did, giving filleted advice to which all took note, before he went about his business and then them to theirs. The younger fella left from the other door and the room fell silent. ‘I remember the day we put the Kray’s back on the train. Frankie Frazer had a bad day that day.’