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Uncomplicated, traditional, masculine and long overdue for a comeback, the infusion of bay combined with rum and spicy clove has a clarity and directness which makes it the antithesis of most fragrances. Wearing it today, it reminds me of my Father, long gone. He never wore it but he did take me to the barber shop on Saturday afternoons.

As a young boy, going to the barber was my gentle induction into the world of men. Sunken below street level, George’s was in the half-basement of a tall Georgian house on a hill, the entrance down a handful of steps, the red and white twisting pole just at eye level. Going down the stone staircase and watching the wrought-iron inside fence at street level rising above me, I peered through the low windows at the silent scene within. We stepped inside and sounds and smells joined the image; acknowledgment as soft hullos came our way from barber and customers, the radio, the Bay Rum. The atmosphere was friendly, almost cosy, despite the white florescent light and cheap functional furniture.

I would sit waiting for my turn in a chair upholstered in plastic. It was altogether too large for me but felt welcoming and generous like George the barber. The sound of the horse racing commentary from the radio washed over me in incomprehensible waves. The words were meaningless to my pre-pubescent ears but the rules of the commentator’s game were made clear by the consistent repetition of the pattern. The pitch and volume accelerated gradually and deliberately from calm beginnings to a blistering crescendo of excitement, the like of which I had never heard from anyone over the age of seven. The business of the shop went ahead throughout, always steady and even. Men got up, left, said goodbye in quiet, almost reverential timbre. Cutting through the smoke, the smell of the Bay Rum came in waves too, ever present in the background but more intense when a shave or haircut was completed and the final touch applied. It drifted across the room, medicinal and edible at the same time, green, astringent, sweet and spicy. I didn’t know those words then, that was just the smell of George’s.

The wait for my turn was never too long. He would turn to me and nod, always addressing me directly rather than communicating through my Father. I crossed the room and ascended onto the cushion placed on the seat and listened for the grinding noise as the chair was winched up to put my head at barber height. The white apron was tied on, supposedly to stop the cut hairs from going down my jumper and all over my clothes, though it never actually did and I always itched until I bathed. He would cut my hair and then position the mirror so I could approve his work at the back. Due to my nervous ignorance, I refused the offer of cologne on my first visit with such vigour that it was never offered again. I regretted this decision on every subsequent visit as I tried to summon the courage to ask for it, feeling I was missing an important part of the ritual.

Looking back, I think the barber held a special position. Perhaps more important even than the publican, he was a social worker and educator in living-together as well as hairdresser. He was the enabler of men to perfume themselves and buy condoms without dealing with the bespectacled lady in the chemist shop. He created a masculine environment untroubled by macho posturing where men and boys could be relaxed and look after each other. Perhaps the subconscious knowledge of the barber’s sharp tools necessitated this ambiance. It was a place where men treated each other with quiet respect. Sons and fathers distant at other times could bond there. Often it was a single point of contact for lonely elder men, a haven for gentle men of all backgrounds and classes.

George must be long dead. As I walk past now, the shop has become a “beauty and anti-aging clinic”, a place where poison tightens the skin, where loose bits of individuals are tugged and tucked in order to disguise true appearance rather than a place to tie disparate people together.

Of course it no longer smells of bay rum.

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