There was a time when all barbers were called “Luigi”, even when christened “Frank”. It accompanied the immaculate college-cut, turning short, plumpish Italian romeos into dapper womanisers with the feintest of grey and the largest of egos.
One such, Frank by name and by nature, ran a salon on the railway end of St John’s Avenue for over a quarter of a century, eventually attracting the manicured business type in a fine pin-stripe with the hint of pink in a button-down Gloweave, as well as the lad in his blue singlet and concrete-spattered ankle-protectors.
No sooner was the chair pumped and the paper whipped around the neck, than Frank was working his scissors in time to his larynx, the black fine-toothed comb flicking up the wayward ends, tumbling wisps of hair to ignominy on the floor below.
Frank, of course, was a font of wisdom on the machinations at Inter.