Episode 26 - Haircuts Like Movie Stars

How to make friends and influence people? Cut hair.

During the three and a half years I was in prison I wrote over a million words by hand. Tales From The Jails is a contemporaneous account of my life, and attempts to thrive rather than merely survive, whilst incarcerated.

Most names have been changed. The events have not.

This is a Jekyll & Pride production.

Producer: Trevessa Newton

Title Music taken from The Confession, on the album Crimes Against Poetry (written and performed by The Shadow Poet, produced by Lance Thomas)

Copyright Jekyll & Pride Ltd 2025

@talesfromthejailspodcast

@jekyllandpride2023
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Transcript

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Episode 26 Haircuts Like Movie Stars. Kenko was gone today under a cloud of smoke and left a trail of unsettlement behind him. There are many words and phrases I could use to describe him. Some of them complimentary and some of them not. But I did have a soft spot for the kid and I will remember him fondly even if he did let himself down, and others including me along the way. K was desperate to be liked, or should I say popular, needy, and insecure, but with claws. A lot like a spoiled cat who loves to be pampered but could still be sly and devious on other occasions and you could never fully trust him. I suppose you're wondering why I say such mixed words about a man with whom I had a soft spot for, but the truth is the truth, and based on the up close and personal observations and experience I shared with him. K had a ferocious appetite to be a somebody and a wealthy one at that. For all of his underhandedness, dodgy dealings and general bullshit, interestingly, we talked a lot about his mother more than anyone else. A man in a boy's body dealing in drugs, and anything else that was shady, and yet he continually spoke about his mum. She was the only person who ever visited him. I think that says a lot in itself. K was a dead ringer for Alan Harper of Two and a Half Men. He shuffled around like a pensioner in his Hugo Boss tops, like it was a fashion parade. Everything in its place except his physique. Every day he would talk, or should I say, repeat at any opportunity, wild fantasies about the shape he was going to get into. Or alternatively, he would spiral into depths of despair at the harsh reality that he was, as the lads described him, a skinny fat boy. He never shut up. If it wasn't about his body shape, dieting or Hugo Boss clothes, or I just need to speak to such a person, well, for all of his smiling and joking, sadly, he was also being used and intimidated, although I don't think he would agree. But it was obvious. In the end, officers aren't stupid or worse, hate it if you're taking the piss, when in their eyes you're in a privileged position and you're abusing it. Certain officers get on better with certain lads, and that helps. K had a few in his corner, and although he made it to the Cat D nirvana, he was let go of in reception and blackballed on the wing. He was wildly insecure and didn't listen or take any advice, or he did, but it was short-lived. There were a number of times he brought out the claws, especially when the home truths were landed on him. For all of his defects of character, he was entertaining and you either laughed until you cried or you wanted to strangle the little fucker. His name was called out from work to the wing and Toenails loathed his popularity. Credit where it was due. He was a hustler, and if somebody needed contraband of one sort or another, he was only too willing to facilitate. He had the audacity to say on plenty of occasions, I'm a younger, better looking version of you, Georgio. I told him he was having a laugh. You may be younger, but you are not anywhere near as good looking and I'm in my fifties. The lads loved that shout, reminding him he's never been called GG. The lad loved it when I would swear or curse. It was a rare treat, especially when I would say or pronounce it in a non-Scouse type of way. K sold his soul day in and day out, prostituting his services, abusing his position while he smiled, like a cheeky schoolboy who was dealing. It is not for me to say where the locker or stash was, because things such as that could only be kept in one place and are already written about on the plug topic. K had a relationship with a Chinese girl prior to entering HMP. He only told both her and his mother the day before court sentencing about his predicament. For all of his fun qualities, below the surface, he was desperate to be a somebody. A rich somebody to be precise. He sold his soul before HMP and did the same inside too. After six months in here, he showed me a letter he had received by his mother from his girlfriend out in China. To be honest, half of the wing saw the letter before I did, including the despicable one, who gave him a torrid time. When he sat in front of me while I read it, I chose to give him the fair interpretation, sprinkled with some hope. Unfortunately, I felt it was no hope, and the letter was as close to a Dear John without actually saying the words. If I'm honest, the girl made the right decision. The letter could only be interpreted as someone who was hurting. A hint of, I will always love you K, but. also a sense of being polite as she waved goodbye. The line that resonated the most, however, was you never listen. And to be honest, I was quick to remind him of this because it was completely true. Deluded is not a word I prefer to use, having been on the end of it by the judge, but he was deluded and disingenuous, and I don't say that lightly or with any malice. As time went on, I warned him that he was on very thin ice with his activities and wrong to mislead his girlfriend in tempting or promising her about his changed ways and bringing her back. By now, he had reached the blinded invincible stage of believing his own hype, pushing his luck in the wrong places, and becoming a car crash of the unpleasant kind. He was taking his pressures and problems out on me more than anyone else, while schmoozing with the enemy to win some kind of short-lived favour or reprieve. In the end, he burnt his bridges as desperately he wanted to be loved and respected, for me, it was hard to take him seriously. In the end, I think he realized I had been his only true protective friend and he thanked me in a way that I knew was genuine. The lad who craved attention ended up receiving the wrong type and within 48 hours he was history, not a legend, how he may have preferred to think he would be remembered. I've seen many come and go during the last five months, and I've noticed this. If an officer helps you or gives you some slack and you abuse it, then a ship out isn't far away. Kenko got a lucky deal. Moving on to Cat D, but my instincts tell me he'll fuck it up there too. How to make friends and influence people? Cut hair. I've been cutting hair now for a couple of months. I love it. From nothing to at least a couple a day on average. Now, even Mr. H approached me and took the chair. I told the lads from the beginning, I'm a stylist, not a barber. Young Dan asked me, what's the difference? I told him, a stylist gives you what you ask for, and a barber gives you what they think best. A stylist has more flair while a barber is prone to being a one trick pony. He said on that basis, he'd like a cut from a stylist. Most days I announce the salon is open. It brings out the best in me, allows me to be creative even if I am limited. I've mentioned way back in the early days how haircuts are a big deal in prison, especially for your visit, when you want to make an effort for your loved ones. I've seen far too many shockers on visits and believe with practice I can do much better. J was my first cut. Or should I say, volunteer. He's been in my corner since I landed in reception. He's Walton's number one Listener, and the only inmate with a red band. He can travel around the prison and between the wings without being escorted or accompanied by an officer. If I confide in anyone, it is J. With Toenails and Number One doing everything to derail me, undermine me, and generally be horrible, J has been a star. T had sent me in a pair of Wahl clippers. I unboxed them and christened them on J, albeit he had been sporting a decent cut in the first place. I'd previously told the lads I'd done a bit of cutting when I was younger, which is true, but potentially a little misleading too. I did cut my brother's heads when we were kids, and my cousin was a stylist and I used to watch her in action when we received free cuts as a family. It's worth mentioning that if I believe I can do something, then I do it. I just get on with it and go, undeterred, you could say. It makes me feel creative. I feel free, and I love seeing a bad head day turn into something quite presentable. I've been pointing out to T on visits, heads that I've cut. I don't charge either. The going rate is a tin of tuna or two, but I couldn't think of anything worse than charging or taxing a fellow inmate. It brings me so much joy, learning something as I go along, trying different methods and working on varying hairstyles. Some lads like J have a thick mane of hair and they're never going bald, but he likes it short from a zero up to a two. Thick, but short on top and carrying a fringe. Other lads are going bald and feel embarrassed. Especially if Toenails is around, who delights in making them squirm with Baldy shouts. I remind the lads that Toenails may have his hair, but he's got a dodgy eye and talks like a Scouse Popeye. They love it when I show the claws to Toenails. Some lads have hair like wire wool while others, it's thin and baby soft. I find fringes can be tough and get the crown wrong and you're fucked, and they look like Billy Whizz from the Beano. I take my time or it takes time and sometimes my client is sweating with the prayer mat out that I don't fuck it up. Everything is about the blend, and if you fail there, everyone is winding me and the client up for hours, if not days. At this stage, I'd like to think I'm better than no barber or stylist at all, but I am making good progress and practice makes perfect. The key is not to hesitate or show that you look daunted and scared. The easiest method is just to go up and down the numbers. The blend gets shorter, quicker, the more mistakes you make in the first place. What adds to the pressure is when one of the lads wants to permanently hold a mirror to the cutting. My thinking from landing here was to cut hair in case I'm moved. It's a great icebreaker in a strange place, and when you cut for free, then there's normally a queue. The lads open up in the chair as they relax. There's always prison talk of one topic or another, but usually anything that's on their minds, pours out. The great thing about working in reception is I have hours of freedom to read, write, and cut. It's funny, but some of the best content is said during the cut. Equally, the lads are always inquisitive. They seem to love the stories of my life and lifestyle, in the old days. Lads on the wing, they approach me too, if I'll cut on a Sunday, that's if I'm unlocked. As I say, I enjoy it. It kills the monotony and I feel challenged, as well as thrilled after every cut. The lads don't get it, but I do. It's been a game changer for settling and being closer to the lads while I'm left to do my own thing. J drops into reception mid-afternoon and it's either me cutting hair or we're playing cards. Milk is a big issue. Or should I say Milk Gate? It's a perk. Whatever workstation you work in carries its own perk. The lads in the job benefit, or that's how it's meant to be. However, even this has become an issue, fuelled by Toenails once again. If it wasn't so serious, you would be laughing your head off. I think Mr. H taking the chair is a big shout. J seemed to think so. He said it was a clear message to the lads and officers that he was in my corner and I won't be derailed and out of reception at the hands of Toenails or Number One. I told J that I said to Mr. H the cut reminds me of John Saxon in Enter the Dragon. He choked laughing and said that that one line to Mr. H secured my future in reception more than anything else. Finally, there's no progress with Open Uni. May has come and gone and June is almost over. I'm reading a book a week now too. The latest is Sapiens. It's a history of humankind. It does make me wonder what Harari, the author would make of this place. First thing he'd recognize is the Neanderthal gene is still flourishing.