Murdock

'Murdock' is a barbers shop in Shoreditch. It's an interesting little place, being as it is a beauty salon for men well disguised as an old-fashioned, traditional male grooming parlour. Expensive imported products lie out on glass shelves, and there are piles of mysterious looking terracota orbs and pots of moisturizer in mufti as 'finishing after-shave face balm'. The seats are steel and red leather and look a little like a dentist's chair modelled on the interior of a Mercedes. A spotlessly groomed gay fellow runs the appointments book in an appropriately snooty manner. The barber himself resembled George Clooney in 'Oh Brother, Where Art Thou?', with greased back hair, broad shoulders and ridiculously perfect two-day stubble. He whips the chair with his white towel in an almost comically mannered way, clearly relishing his role. He explains each type of hot & cold towel treatment or facial serum as it's applied, makes conversation about how straight razors are better than modern varieties. He glances out of the window as cars and pedestrians go by, waving and smiling occasionally. The radio station is one that I've never heard of, and despite recognising only one song for the duration of my one-hour stay (an unidentified crooner's version of "Makin' Whoopee"), every song sounds like a classic.

There are several stages to go through in a Murdock shave. First, the removal of beard, done quickly with clippers (and charged as extra). The 'beard smell' is very distinctive, reminding me a little of the smell skin has when you remove a bandage after a day or two. Then, my head is lain back onto a pile of white linen, and a hot towel is wrapped over my entire face. I can feel pressure being applied to various points. It's nice. But weird to know people are walking past and watching. Next, a facial massage using various mysterious liquids from different parts of the world. I think to myself, "if I was gay, this would be something I'd do daily; it's a homo-erotic version of a massage from a beautiful girl". Next, thick lather is applied with a soft brush, for much longer than it needs to be (the unspoken 'sensual' part of the ostensibly functional process). Extra foam is removed with a firm finger. And then the scraping with the razor begins. It's a little terrifying to have a stranger in a position where he could quite easily slit your throat should he suddenly flip out. He's a professional though, turning the razor this way and that, taking off every little bit of stubble from my awkwardly multi-directional beard. My face is re-foamed half way through, which burns a little, but he explains that it's to stop the newly shaved skin from drying out before the next step.

After my face and neck are shaved completely, I rinse my face in the basin, and lie back for the finale. A musty smelling ointment is applied all over my face, after which the barber produces a green stone on a roller from a small refrigerator, and rolls it over my face. It's cold Chinese jade, I'm told, and will seal the moisture into my skin.

After that, it's a firm handshake, my coat handed back (with slight distaste) by the keeper of appointments, and £41 is removed from my account. They don't try to sell me any products, or rebook another appointment. And then I'm wandering the streets of Shoreditch, catching my strangely unfamiliar face in every window, my head full of thoughts about shaving as a stylised ritual, of grooming as one of the key things that separates from animals, and how taking care of your outermost layer of skin isn't just a shallow or vain process, but could just as easily be considered some kind of existential battle to stop yourself dissolving into the ether.