Six months ago, I delivered a proclamation to anyone who would listen, and, if truth be told, there weren't many of those.    

My declaration went along the lines of, "I'm not cutting my hair until this bloody pandemic is over."  Until late, this plan has worked rather well, and I have revelled in riding my trusty motor sepeda ( scooter) around the streets with my locks blowing in the breeze beneath my helmet, a sensation that I have not enjoyed for many, many years.

That was until a few days ago.

One day last week, I stumbled to the shower and stood under the pathetic dribble of water flowing from the nozzle. F#&@K !!  I forgot to reset the timer on the pump!  I don a towel and head for the said pump to rectify the problem and, along the way, pass one of the spare bedrooms where I see management in a downward dog or some other such impossible yoga position while participating in an online class.

I am muttering to myself, a pastime that I thoroughly enjoy, lately as there is nobody to listen to me except the neighbour's cat, who doesn't seem to care either way.  

Pump fixed, I head back to my interrupted shower; when reaching the bathroom, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I notice unruly strands of hair protruding from my head at all sorts of acute angles giving the impression that I was staring at a demented clown or Albert Einstein on a bad hair day. 

It would appear that "I'm not cutting my sparse hair until this pandemic is over" is not working.

Perhaps it's time for a haircut.

Management, who often doubles as my resident hairdresser when asked whether she would 'style' my errant locks, informed me that she doesn't do "styling" given that she employs the prison shave to which she has administered for several years.

So, it is off to Kennedys, my hairdresser of choice, who would have to come to the rescue. When learning of my impending journey to my stylist, management insisted that I apply 'hand sanitiser" from head to toe and promptly issues me with two K19 extra protective face masks.

Both are to be worn at once. !!!!!

When I reached the salon, the mask issue proved to be a problem, as when attempting to communicate with my hairdresser; things became somewhat lost in translation. Thus, my muffled dialogue was lost on my Moroccan patron who spoke little English, little Bahasa but was funnily enough, fluent in French! 

It turns out the newly installed stylist had been 'enticed' to Indonesia from Dubai by his 'friend' who promised a glittering career grooming wealthy Indonesians who thought nothing of tipping $100. 

 I was subjected to a tale of woe regarding the purchase of the emporium, given that those requiring a haircut in these troubled times were few and far between. My' usual hairdressers, I noted, had all departed for other means of employment happily clutching the loot from the sale. Ali, the newly installed proprietor, informed me that I was the first customer he had had in three days.

Today's experience always going to be interesting!!

After settling me into the chair, he wrapped what felt like duct tape around my throat, applying perhaps a little too much pressure. Then a cape was draped across my shoulders while he aimed his hairdryer at my face to remove any errant hairs from the previous customer three days prior. 

Ali, who learnt his craft in Casablanca, smiled at me and reached for the tools of his trade. In the mirror, I watch as he waves scissors and comb in a carefully choreographed manoeuvre that was vaguely similar to a Flamenco performance I once saw in Ibiza by a dancer who had had perhaps one lesson.

An abundance of clicking of scissors and elaborate waving of comb took place before the actual business of shedding hair began.

Now, follically challenged as I am, there is not an abundance of hair to be cut, even though I had allowed the sparse follicles to run rampant for several months. Yet, Ali was able to spread out the entire operation for a painfully long 40 minutes. 

During the process, I became slightly deafened by the clicking of the scissors in my ears. It was like having a pair of maracas clattering away with reckless abandon. 

Each hair was carefully examined, assessed and then delicately severed, eyebrows trimmed by raising each protruding follicle individually, each ear lobe was given special attention.

Finally, his attention turned to the top of my head, the least populated spot. 

Like an artist, he stood back and stared at my pate it for what seemed like an eternity before diving into his box of tricks. Emerging with an unlabelled brown bottle, he began to apply something that felt very much like liquid cement. The solution was then massaged thoroughly into the skin until satisfied; he began arranging the anaemic strands into what he perceived to be the style I needed. Initially, he appeared to favour what seemed to be a thinnish comb-over which was not to his liking. 

He then took the cement hardened tufts and carefully styled it down and slightly to the right, a fashion favoured by dear Adolf in the 1930s. 

Satisfied, he whips the cape from my shoulders like a flamboyant matador, removes the throat constricting tape from around my neck and holds my head while we both gaze at his creation in the mirror.

"Magnifique," he says with a glowing smile. 

On reaching home, I parade my new look to management, who promptly leaves the room and returns bearing her trusty electronic clippers. Ali's meticulous work was reduced to a number1 prison cut within minutes, something I have become accustomed to for many years.

It seems the world I now occupy is where a haircut is a rather brilliant distraction from the ravages of an international pandemic. 

Bali, Indonesia September 2021.