Blog Layout

Secrets of a Back Street Barber Shop

Maria Iliffe-Wood • Jul 15, 2021
Two senior aides meet at a secret location, to plan how to put a positive spin on the recent breakdown of high profile talks between their respective government parties.

“We’ve got to make it sound credible.” Said Joe Mikowski, Head of PR for Communication Responses and Party Policies (CRaPP) for the Labour Party. He was in a barber shop. The tan leather of his chair was cracked and stuffing leaked out of the arms. The spin mechanism on the base of the chair was polished, oiled and greased to perfection. Two chairs remained empty, which was notable for a Saturday.

Joe’s head was tilted back. His pepper grey hair formed a neat line around his ears. His face was smothered with thick creamy Goodfella’s shaving soap that smelled of canned pine. The barber stood behind him with a pearl handled, cut-throat razor in his hand. 

“How about… We’re close to bridging the accountability gap and talks will resume in due course.” Said Perry Grayson who reported to the Prime Minister and was the Head of PR for Policy Opacity and Operational Performance (POOP). He was sat in the chair to Joe’s right and his voice was muffled by a hot off-white towel over his face. 

Four mirrors, cornered with LED spotlights, bounced light around the place to show up the grime in the corners, the build-up of hair cuttings and the sections of floor missed by the slapdash swoosh of a dirty mop which now stood in a bucket by the wall. The water smelled like rotten eggs. 

“Or… After substantive discussions that move us towards an historic agreement, both sides have taken a break and will resume anon.” Perry said.

Both men wore sharp Armani suits. Joe’s was navy with a faint red stripe, Perry’s was grey with a pale blue check. Neither man would usually frequent a place like this but needs must. The owner was paid well for his discretion. 

“Don’t you wish we could say… Neither party knows what the fuck to do, so they’ve decided to bugger off home for a few days.” Joe said and both men sighed. 

The two barbers caught each other’s eye in the mirror. They raised their eyebrows as if to say ‘ain’t that the truth’. Both were the wrong side of fifty. One was six foot two, worked out at the gym five days a week and every visible part of his bulging body was covered in tattoos and dotted with dermal piercings. The other, a head shorter, sported a manicured beard that was incongruent with his dirty jeans, black bovver boots and Def Leppard Hysteria tour T-shirt. 

“It would make our lives a lot easier.” Perry said. A chest freezer at the back of the salon hummed. It contained meat for the kebab shop next door. A Daily Times newspaper sat on the lid with the headline ‘Government Talks Break Down Again’.

The two barbers took an intense interest in their work. One worked up a lather with a soft bristle shaving brush and a block of soap, the other got to work on Joe’s throat with the six-inch blade. Like every other lay person in the country, they knew exactly what the Government should do but Ministers were not interested in what the general public had to say, despite their rhetoric on the subject. 

There was a silver lining. Both barbers were feathering their nests for a memoir called ‘Secrets of a Back Street Barber Shop’ to fund their retirement. 

“I know what you mean.” Said Perry. “We could say… The PM said ‘go whistle’ to the opposition leader’s suggestion of an ‘entente cordiale’ which brought the talks to an abrupt close.” A small crack appeared in the shaving foam on Joe’s face. “Or… The opposition leader demanded a natural break after his idea was flushed down the toilet and talks will resume when he has finished his ablutions.” 

“Here’s one.” Joe said. “The PM blew a gasket when one of his own ministers agreed with the opposition and talks are suspended until a replacement minister can be found.”

“Ha!” Perry said, on a roll. “Talks were brought to a halt when someone realised the PM’s wife was pulling his strings, and they’ve taken a break while surgeons attempt to cut the ties.”

The two men were red in the face, tears streamed down their cheeks. The now lukewarm towel had fallen into Perry’s lap, and the two barbers had stood back bewildered. 

“Oh my God!” Joe said, clapping his hand to his chest in an effort to calm himself down. Perry slapped Joe’s thigh. “A ceasefire was called when someone realised the parties were in agreement over a course of action. The two leaders have had to have a lie down until smelling salts can be brought in.” “No Stop!” Joe said.

“One more...” Perry said, catching his breath. “The opposition leader refuses to resume talks until the PM apologizes for flicking a boiled sweet at him, which landed in his tea and splashed his brand-new white shirt.” Both men were like cackling hyenas dining on the bones of a fresh carcass.

As the laughter died off, Joe said “I hope no-one’s listening.” 

Both men’s faces paled as they looked towards the shop door. Perry glanced at the fire sensor on the ceiling. “Or videoing.” He said. “We don’t want another Matt Hancock fiasco.” As one, both men said, “I’m glad I didn’t have to write the PR for that one.” The two men looked at each other, the smile gone from their faces. Cold air from the ceiling fan chilled the atmosphere. 

“Seriously. Don’t you wish sometimes we could tell the truth?” Joe said. “Yeah.” Perry said. “I’d love to tell the truth of why Angela Merkel walked out of the G7 climate talks.” “I don’t know that one.” Joe said. 

“Because Boris goosed her on the way to the photoshoot.” 


Footnote

This piece was written in 24 hours for a NYC Midnight Flash Fiction competition. To meet the requirements of the competition the piece had to meet the following criteria:

  • Be less than 1000 words
  • Be a Political Satire
  • Be located, at least in part, in a barber shop
  • A freezer must physically appear at some point in the story



Ageing

By Maria Iliffe-Wood • 30 Nov, 2022
I remember myself as a young woman. Unblemished skin, silk mahogany hair and a slender figure. I yearned for longer legs and would say there was a six-foot supermodel h idden, crouched and stuffed, in this diminutive form, and it wanted to be unleashed. I’m an old woman now, with the vagaries of an ageing body and multiple textures in my hair. Inside I’m a blessed spaciousness but nobody gets to see that. All they see is a cadaver of gelatinous pulp and wretched wrinkles that forge chasms across my chin, along with the tufts of dried grass that make their acquaintance with the soft down that has always existed there. Eyebrows that were once slight and refined, now charge their way towards my hairline. Tweezers that only had an outing once in a blue moon, now have a daily excursion in front of the ten times magnification mirror. Twenty-twenty vision got lost somewhere in the ether and can only be seen now with the benefit of hindsight. I turn my back to my gorgeous younger self, not wanting to abject myself to what I have lost. My eyes fix only on what lies ahead, even though time and space is short compared to that behind me. I console myself with the knowledge of how my younger life felt. Scared, scorned, scarified by my imaginings. I lived a life belied by the external visage. The outer skin, pure and faultless, the inside tormented. My mind, scourged by questions and demands, never allowed me to feel good enough. My mind, fearful and hesitant, never allowed me to step forward in confidence. My mind, a battle ground, a war that raged between two selves, never allowed me any compassion for my tortured soul. From that beleaguered mind, I was blind to the beauty of my physical form. Some days I pretend I’d give my hind teeth to look like I did again, but I’d not exchange it, not in a million years, for the exquisite tenderness I now harbour deep inside. Unless of course you can offer me a pair of longer legs.

A Writing Student Who Can't Write

By Maria Iliffe-Wood • 27 Jan, 2022
I’ve written a few times this week and still I haven’t done the exercise right. It’s harder than it sounds. The others made it look so easy. I start to go down the route of what’s wrong with me but I block that off before it takes hold. I could do a transformation line but that’s not the exercise. So I’ll keep going. I can’t go to class a second time with a weak piece. I’ve got a reputation to uphold. There’s a Jericho trumpet in the morass that swipes left, the scream aghast as Johnny be good begets temptation to raise an army and shut me down before I even get started. I should be used to this by now, but switching class has done something to me. It’s rattled a cage I’d forgotten was there. I try to push it to one side but I can feel it in the pit of my stomach, no matter what I tell myself. I want to quiet the noise, but I can taste it. I am so tempted to jump into the next exercise. But I need to keep going. My mind keeps throwing things at me. I need to ignore them. I tell myself to persevere. There’s an argument going on in my head. My ego wants me to use all my tricks so I can look good, but if I do that I won’t be teacher’s pet. I want to look good for my tutor and the other students. If I don’t do the exercise I won’t look good to anyone. Looking good won’t do me any favours. Yet it still pushes me to look good. Forget looking good. So I’ll write a load of crap and face the consequences. I can see this is more drivel. It’s been the same every day this week. It’s not worth taking anything to class. Well, if nothing else I’ve stuck to the exercise this time. I should’ve done the musicians class. I bet they’re having an easier time of it than I am. I’m nearly at the end of my two pages and it’s my last chance saloon for whistles and bells and elephant’s trumpets. I’ll waddle onto the gangplank, in my barbed wire pants, shove the weeks old bread into the mouth of the knotted talisman and fingers crossed, I hope to do or die. ************** If you like this blog please share on your favourite social media. :)

Ignored by Life

By Maria Iliffe-Wood • 15 Nov, 2021
I sit in this chair and look out the window. I hear the washing machine churn the laundry in the kitchen. I watch the leaves on the tree turn from green, to red, to orange, to brown, to grey and then fall off. I imagine they carpet the lawn with their tawny hues. I don’t see the ground. I make up half the story, to compensate for what I can’t see, from this chair. People walk outside. Up and down the street. I imagine them going to work, to school, to play, or to the theatre, or the cinema, to a football match or a round of golf. I sit in this chair and make up stories about them. Cars come and go. I imagine them arriving at their destination, breaking down on the motorway, crashing into a lamppost, being lambasted by a forty foot artic lorry. I imagine the passengers end up in a chair, much like this one. I wave at the postman as he passes by my window. He doesn’t stop. No gifts, or parcels, cards or letters from friends, or family, or the double glazing firm that wants to sell me a new set of windows. I want to ask him about his wife, his kids, his work, his life. I know nothing about him, nor him about me, other than I’m the woman who sits in the chair and looks out of the window. He doesn’t notice the look on my face when he passes by without a glance. Next door’s cat comes into the garden. I watch her wander around. She sniffs at the plants, eats the grass, poos in the gravel at the edge of the path. I’d love her to wander in and sit on my lap, while I sit in this chair. But like everyone else, she wanders by the open door, with ne’er a look. The washing machine stops. Someone will empty it later, when they arrive to clean me up, get me dressed, tidy up around me. “I can’t stop to chat.” The nurse will say. “I’ve got too much to do, too many people to get around to, too many others to care for.” Care. That’s what she calls it. No cup of tea. No gossip about the neighbours. No catch up with what’s going on in her life. I’d love to hear what else she’s up to. She knows what I do. I sit in this chair. 

Cast Iron Core

By Maria Iliffe-Wood • 09 Sep, 2021
I have fought long and hard for my self-worth. I will not give it up, not for nothing or no-one. Behind this guileless exterior lies a steel rod. I am not to be messed with. I will not lay down to take a mouthful of crud, swilled down with horse-shit and a big dollop of how’s your father. I will not be sniffed at, sneezed over, coughed on. I will not be spat on from a great height. This backbone of mine will not squelch, will not fold in on itself, will not curl into a foetal position in the face of exhorted attempts at my denigration. My dignity is rock solid. Arrows bounce off this impervious exterior. Nothing and no-one will get past the perimeter of my mind to cause untold damage inside. I know who I am. I am proud of who I am. I am who I am. I protect who I am. This protectress is the strongest part of me. The part that stands up to fight when the chips are down. The part that refuses to accept scattergun accusations. The part that surfaces once in a blue moon. The part I’ve always relied on, when I’m in a tight spot, with my back to the wall. It sports a Kevlar jacket, with Doc Martin boots, and a Boadicea shield, yet it has a pink fluffy boa around its collar. It won’t take any punches, nor does it hold any prisoners. All the best parts of me are rolled into this one, corralled into action, at my most strident. It’s the cast iron core of me. I will never give it up. ************************ This poem was conceived during the Wild Dark and Passionate, Level Seven of my writing classes with Jules Swales.

A Few More Years

By Maria Iliffe-Wood • 16 May, 2021
I’m fifty-nine next week. Dad died seven weeks after his fifty-ninth birthday. His dad died at  fifty-one. Did Dad wonder what he should do different in those next few weeks, or did he just flip it aside and pay it no mind and live his life as he normally did and let the chips fall where they may. Did he ask himself how he could make these last few weeks more precious? Did he decide to tell everyone he loved that he loved them or did he just trust that they knew that already? Did he go all out to be present to every moment of every day and notice the little things that matter like milk and sugar on his cornflakes family photos on top of the piano a roof over his head Jesus in his heart. Did he say to himself, or to God ‘Please let me have a few more years’ and did God answer and that’s why he lived to fifty-nine instead of fifty-one. What would happen if I pray the same prayer. Will I get a few more years? Image downloaded from canva.com

In Conversation with JB Hollows

By Maria Iliffe-Wood • 14 Apr, 2021
Jacqueline Hollows was the instigator of the book A Different Story. In this informal interview with Maria Iliffe-Wood, Jacqueline talks about how her interest in the 'business' of publishing a book led her to suggest the idea of publishing A Different Story, How Six Authors became Better Writers. You can read more of Jacqueline's writing and find out what else she's up to in the world on her website .

An Evening with the Authors

By Maria Iliffe-Wood • 06 Apr, 2021
The six contributing authors to A Different Story, read a piece from the book then answer questions about their writing process. Questions like: What was your process when you sat down to write these pieces? Are the stories true? How did you manage to remember so much detail? Jules Swales, the method writing teacher who designed the exercises and explained each one in the book also offers a perspective on her teaching of method writing and its impact. You can buy a copy of the book here , and all author royalties will go to Storybook Dads .

Published Author: The Big Question Mark Stamped on my Forehead

By Usha Mayani • 15 Feb, 2021
This is the full testimonial received from Usha Mayani contributing author to A Different Story.

Author Insights: Interview with Hansa Pankhania

By Maria Iliffe-Wood • 10 Feb, 2021
Hansa Pankhania is a mother, a grandmother and a wellbeing coach who can’t quite believe she has published seven books, and she has two more on the way. I loved this conversation with Hansa, especially when she talked about where the inspiration came from for each of her books. She has written business/ wellbeing books, a memoir and children’s books and for each one the idea of the book came in a different way. Hansa was an author who was overwhelmed with the idea of marketing when she published her first book, but she realised that you can’t get away from it. However, she learned with every book she published, and even though it’s not her favourite part of the process, it is something that she is now more comfortable with. Like all the authors I have talked to, she has her own gremlins and her way of dealing with them is to reach out to other people. Either her publishing team, her editors or the writing community. You can find out more about Hansa, and her work, on he r website , and although her books are available on Amazon, I recommend you buy your copies from the website as she has a special offers on there, and some free downloads.

My Sin

By Maria Iliffe-Wood • 07 Feb, 2021
I was queered, right from the get go. Do not place bets on my capitulation. The purse that is my soul is vacuous, empty, bereft of the queen’s shilling. Traitorous to t he iniquity, this den shalt be mine sayeth the Lord. I, of little consequence, obdurate the facetious backslide of cretinous mannequins that block my way. Struts that stiffen under my resolve and create a charged barricade for this particular pound of flesh. I, crucible to the rapacious, jaundiced from my inauspicious beginning, reptiled into an ossification of life’s first lesson. I’m lathered with the feces that arrived with my existence, that yellow gruel that ran through my veins, traces of which never left, despite the medical flushing designed to cleanse this unclean form. The excrement continues to float like oil on the life blood of this carbon copy chattel, shackled to my brain. I, tormented, tied myself to that jarred scream as I ripped, tore and expunged myself through the torture that maternal desire could never see past. I arrived to shrieks of denial, derogated, subjugated, incarcerated by the hands that gave me life, yet bruised my neck as they choked the breath from my lungs. Generosity leaves a foul stench in my mouth, in the pit of my stomach, in the hidden corner of my existence, where I crouch, foetal curled into myself, straitjacketed by my own arms, cowering, shivering, blistering from the heat of the flames of hell, engulfed by the shards of the devil, that come with a cacophonous decapitation and drowning in my own shit. I cannot reach out, cannot stretch my arms in supplication, cannot be saved from this intrepid asphyxiation by the excreta formulated in the bile of my non-existence. I cannot open my eyes to what cannot be seen. I lie in the wretched darkness, terrified of the malfeasance that may exist if I were to shift my perspective to that which I have ignored for so long. I had it triple-boxed. Superglued with the life-force designed for bigger, better things. I have cast it overboard with the dregs, and live in the bitter ministrations of closed precincts of possibility. Abject I clutch at straws. Pathetic, tragic, I pray for my release. Contemptible, debauched, quarried, I whimper in the hope of salvation. Quid pro quo, rapacious, ravenous, greedy for recognition, I beg forgiveness for my sin, my only sin, the sin that can never be vindicated, the sin that sears through my heart and blackens my soul, the sin that not even God’s love will overlook. The sin of my being born.
More Posts
Share by: