Is your hairdresser really your therapist?

Is Your Hairdresser Really Your Therapist?

I read somewhere that people are more honest with their hairdresser than their doctor — and I believe it. First-hand, I’ve done it myself. When asked by my doctor about my weekly alcohol intake, I shaved a few units off. When asked about pain, I’ve been known to add an extra digit just to skip the endless NHS queue.

But when you're in the barber's chair? There’s something about the scissors, the mirror, the atmosphere — people open up. We’re like confession boxes with capes.

At Woodstock HARE, I often referred to the left rickety red chair where I stood for six years as “the chair of truth.” I say “painfully” with a cheeky smile, because it was incredibly fun and wisdom-inducing — but also physically and emotionally raw.

We’d play silly games to keep the spark alive: “How much info can I get from this person?” or “How many times can I say the word ‘penguin’?” We’d try rhyming it or slipping it in mid-sentence to win our discreet competition. Afterwards, we’d have full-blown debates over whether “that counted” or if something was “even a real word.”

One week I got so competitive I researched penguins to one-up George. Did you know male penguins gift female penguins with rocks to woo them? Or that they’re one of the most streamlined animals in the world? I used those facts to win. Worth it.

At one point, I even started doing whole haircuts standing on one leg — just to challenge myself and break the routine. You get creative when your feet are screaming at you every hour.

But what we built at Woodstock was something more than a job, it was a beautiful brotherly boisterous bombardment of humour and entertainment. Playful arguments, big laughs, inside jokes that echoed through the shop. I genuinely get emotional thinking about those times. I feel so lucky to have such an amazing brother I trust with everything.

It was a performance, a team sport, and a daily dose of joyful madness.

We cut the hair of everyone — from the local bobby to wannabe gangsters selling weed, lawyers to freshly released felons. Sometimes in the same morning. It made for a lively but edgy atmosphere. You had to read the room. Quickly.

I developed a game where I’d guess someone’s career — sometimes even their school. Body language, tone, style, eye contact. It became a superpower. I could read liars, sense depression, detect trauma. It often led to bonding. And bizarrely, joy.

I once told a lad he went to Abingdon Boys, studied sciences at A-Level, and opened the batting for the cricket team. Nailed it. That’s what 15,000 hours of conversation does to your brain — it rewires you. You don’t just cut hair. You read souls.

But with all that openness and human insight comes weight.

We’re not trained therapists. Doctors are taught to emotionally detach. Barbers aren’t. And empathetic James struggled with the weight of people’s pain. We are at the grassroots. We see society from the ground up — the illnesses, debts, divorces, small wins and quiet breakdowns.

And it chips away. You want to help. You offer kind words or advice. But eventually, even the thickest skin and the strongest spine begin to buckle.

That’s where plantar fasciitis kicks in. The constant standing, unforgiving floors, ten-hour shifts, it’s not just metaphorically painful. It’s physically draining. My heels burned daily, my back ached, my legs felt like concrete. But that was nothing compared to the emotional exhaustion that crept in silently, through the cape and behind the clippers.

I’m convinced this helped fuel my drinking problem. The free beers we served didn’t help either. But mostly, it was the emotional role we played — half confessional, half sponge. And after enough years of soaking in pain, it starts to leak.

I’m not Gandhi. I don’t glide around in flip-flops, floating in the present. I’m reflective, western, and prone to over-analysis — especially about people. I study behaviours, dissect patterns, and try to learn from others’ mistakes. That’s probably why I’ve never been married, and why I spent most of my youth single.

You hear things. Especially about divorce. Custody battles, financial ruin, mental trauma. It’s enough to scare even the bravest into hesitation.

Did you know around 50% of marriages end in divorce? Pair that with our archaic court system and confused government policies and you’ve got chaos. We’re trying to solve modern problems with outdated tools. Like plucking pubes with tweezers, slow and painful.

And yet — despite the wear and tear, there’s magic in this job.

It’s in the interaction. The people in the chair. Watching juniors grow into skilled artists, and hearing Oxford dons drop philosophical bombs while pensioners throw cheeky curveballs about politics or love. Sometimes in the same breath.

We’re not just hairdressers. We’re mirrors. Journals. Confidants. Performers. Legends. And yes — maybe, just maybe — a little bit therapist too.

And hey, next time you sit in my chair, just remember: I might know your deepest secrets…
But I’m probably too busy seeing how many more times I can say “penguin” under my breath.