Open Writing

Three Waiting...No Chairs...was the odd sign Bluey Hardcastle hung on the door of the sunroom at the back of his new home. It was typical of Bluey's humour.

In the early fifties, new, small weatherboard homes being built in the back blocks of Reservoir were quickly bought up by returned servicemen and their young families. Bluey was my neighbour. Soon after we met I learned that he had been the barber for his unit.

'Sunday mornings they all queued up between the tent lines. I went through them at a great bat. I got a deena a time,' Bluey told me with a cheeky grin. As he was now a haberdasher I thought his barbering days might be over but I still grabbed the chance to ask about a cheap haircut. 'Do you still have your clippers?' I queried tentatively.

'I sure do. Those clippers have seen service in Moratai, Labuan and Borneo. They've cut the hair from Brigadiers down to Privates and even lower life; like Sergeants,' Bluey joked with a wink. He sounded like someone who had met his share of problems with Sergeants.
"Any chance you could give me a cut occasionally?'

'Anytime mate, so long as it's Sunday morning after Mass. I do my best work on Sunday mornings.' Like a lot of barbers, Bluey was garrulous, but I still found it difficult to imagine him in the rag trade discussing ribbon colours and pinny lace with the local housewives.

I arranged to be there about 10.30 the next Sunday. Right on time Bluey had an empty fruit box sitting in the middle of his sunroom and the clippers and scissors on another box. No mirrors or protective cloth to throw over the shoulders. No hair oil or toilet water. It was fairly clear this was going to be an everyday basic short back and sides.

As he hadn't increased the one shilling charge he received for each Army cut eight years before, I wasn't about to complain.

Word soon spread around the estate and before long, each Sunday morning, three or four blokes could be seen wandering around to the back of Bluey's house. Bluey even acquired an eight foot bench for those waiting to spend a shilling.

Besides being an insurance salesman, I did a spot of second-hand furniture dealing on the side. I visited local auction rooms during the week to see what was being offered that might allow me to turn over a quick quid. So when I saw the barbers’ chair at Danny O'Halloran's, our most impressive dealer, I immediately thought of Bluey. The chair was certainly old. Horsehair oozed from a big hole in the seat and from splits in each arm rest. When I twisted the chair it squealed like a frightened violin. I reckoned a bit of insulation tape around the split arm rests, a cushion on the seat and a dose of oil on its swivel would make it ideal for our Sunday gatherings. With all its problems, I felt it would bring more than I could afford.

At the sale on Saturday, Danny the auctioneer, amused the crowd with a variety of uses he claimed the chair would be good for. He even suggested a handyman would probably be able to wire it up and have his own electric chair! When the jokes were finished, Danny got down to business.

'Who'll start me at a fiver?' he called. There were no bids but a few laughs from the crowd. It was obvious there was not a great market for tattered barbers’ chairs. Danny persevered. 'Will somebody give me four quid? Three quid? What's the matter with you all today? You usually recognise a bargain when I put one up. Did I tell you that Reggie Hooper had his haircut in this very chair?'

This revelation brought a murmur through the crowd but no bids.

'O.K. I'm in your hands,' yelled Danny. 'Give me a start somewhere, anywhere.'

Trying to raise a laugh I called out, 'One Shilling.' Bang! Danny's gavel struck the top of his rostrum then he pointed straight at me. 'At least there's someone here who recognises a bargain. It's yours Lofty.' Danny always got a laugh by calling me 'Lofty'. I’m only 5'3'' tall.

After the sale I went to the office to pay for my purchase. I asked Danny 'Who was Reggie Hooper anyway?’

'I think he lived next door to the bloke who put the chair in the auction,' Danny told me with a loud chuckle.

It cost me another five shillings to have the bargain delivered to Bluey's home. His surprise and appreciation made it worth every penny of the charge. He changed his sign to read 3 Waiting...1 Chair.

Bluey's wife made a nice chintz cover to go over the chair during the week. From then on, each Sunday, Bluey waited until we all arrived before he unveiled the throne with a flourish like a Mayor exposing a corner stone.

Sunday mornings became not only the time for a haircut but a real talkfest led by Bluey, standing behind the chair with a comb stuck in the top pocket of his shirt. He had us all chuckling when he told us the story of his unsuccessful betting record and how he had discussed the matter with Father Muldoon, himself a keen 'two bob' punter. It seems Bluey and Father Muldoon would often meet outside the church after Mass and discuss their recent successes or otherwise.

'How you been doing, Cecil?' Father Muldoon asked. I didn't know Bluey had a first name until he let it slip that day. 'Not good, Father. For the last four weeks I've lost every Saturday.'

'That’s strange, Cecil. They've never been easier to pick than the last four weeks. I've had some wonderful winners in that time. Have you ever considered making a visit to the church and lighting a candle before you head for the course?'

'No, I haven't but if you reckon it works for you Father I'll give it a burl this week' Bluey went and lit the candle, then proceeded to lose his money as before. When he saw Father Muldoon again and explained what had happened, the priest asked him quietly, 'When you came into the church did you turn right and light a big candle, or did you turn left and light a small one?'

'What difference would that make? I turned left and lit a small candle.'

'Oh, it makes a great difference, Cecil. The small candles are only for the Trots.'

After the cheap barber shop had been operating for a few weeks a new chum turned up one Sunday morning. 'Do you do style cuts, like?' he asked Bluey. Sitting on our bench, the rest of us waited for the blast. Instead, with a wink to all of us, Bluey said, 'Sure I do style cuts. What did you have in mind?'

'Can you do a Tony Curtis, like?' the new chum asked.

'Sure I can do a Tony Curtis; I'm a great fan of his, too'.

As Bluey ran the clippers up from the nape of the neck, over the top and on to the forehead he'd cut a swathe like a bush fire break in a forest. He continued to denude the new bloke as he prattled on. 'I liked him best in the 'King and I.'.