There are a few catchphrases for which those of us in the profession are justly famous already.
First, there’s Been on holiday yet this year, then, sir?
Then Did you see the match last night, sir? In my day, of course, this referred to Spear-Throwing Contests and Date Pip Spitting Premier League.
And the classic Something for the weekend?
Not forgetting the other things we do, like the flick-and-drape motion with the cover-all sheet at the start; that trick with the hand mirror to show the customer what his new cut looks like at the back; and making sure you take your time with sorting out the change to try to ensure a tip. Yes, it’s not just Advanced Razor Technique at Hairdressing School.
Oh, look at this: I’ve started the story in the middle. Forgive me, but let’s just go back to square one and take another run at it.
My wife Mary (hair of gold, and lips like cherries) and I (who have nothing) ran a donkey sanctuary. Though I say it myself, MulesRAss was quite a success, and we used to breed the animals and trade rather briskly.
But we didn’t always plan ahead properly exactly as farmers should, and we fell into the error of having a favourite. Mary foolishly gave him a name that kind of established an emotional link, if such a thing should ever be admitted! But, as I commented at the time ‘She’s a lady with a strong will!’
So the animal was known as Stubnazzar (this eventually became a traditional name for donkeys). Anyway, we reared him by hand from a tiny foal, and cared for him. When the time came for him to be sold on – well, of course we couldn’t bear to part with him. He grew up and became a permanent fixture around the farm as his offspring and their offspring came along and were traded. After all, that’s what we were in business to do, wasn’t it? But dear old Stubnazzar stayed with us throughout.
After ten years together, running MulesRAss, my caring, sweet Mary took ill. I told her ‘I just want your extra time, and your kiss,’ but it was not to be. She faded fast and passed away in the spring.
I buried her in a small field to the south of the homestead, and the only donkey permitted to graze there was Stubnazzar. Our children used to wonder why, but I felt there was a connection between Mary and I that would never be lost all the while Stubnazzar was given that special privilege.
But the best laid plans, eh? Someone decided to do some archery practice one day, and sadly old Stubnazzar was accidentally struck in the eye. It didn’t just blind him; he died of the resultant infection, and we buried him in that same field.
I’d spend some evenings, after the work was done, staring out over the field to the south of the homestead, wistfully considering what might have been.
I used also to lie in bed and miss Mary, and dream occasionally of her riding Stubnazzar in whatever afterlife there was.
Business faded a little (perhaps I lost heart in it), and one day I was offered a small number of gold coins in exchange for some of my land. I decided to sell up.
Before I could stop the new owners or explain the sentimental significance, they went on and just helped themselves, ploughing and turning the green, green grass of homestead into arable farmland.
They ploughed without knowing that they were desecrating the graves of Stubnazzar and (more importantly) of my wife. There was little I could do, as the damage had already been done.
The new owner apologised when he discovered the mistake, and he did manage to salvage Stubnazzar’s jawbone, and presented it to me, as if I might want to display it above the fireplace, which was just odd.
I left it out on the verandah over the summer to scorch and bleach in the sun, but one day, it was stolen! Can you believe it? And so the final link to my past, to my wife, to our family pet and to the business was taken from me.
I discovered that the jawbone had been swiped by a long-haired, scrawny Israelite of doubtful honour, who apparently used it as a weapon against a large number of people – some say a thousand men were killed in the battle.
He must have been a surprisingly tough guy to be able to swing a heavy jawbone and despatch so many foes! I was angry with this man (I learned his name was Samson) for this act of violence and careless disregard for my precious property.
I couldn’t understand how he was so strong, because to look at him, he didn’t particularly look like he worked out. You’d never guess he had superhuman strength. So I knew there must be some secret: maybe he prays to a special god or spirit; perhaps he was cursed by a witch when he was a child, and it’s kind of helped in some strange way; I even spent a while thinking it must be to do with the horses that pull his chariot. But it seems not. Don’t know.
That’s brought us up to where you came in. Right.
I’ve been running my own place for some time, and we regularly get a queue of men sitting on the bench, reading such publications as The Judge, Gaza Gazette [incorporating Joppa Times], Philistine Post along with some old copies of What Chariot? Of course, we also stock the traditional so-called adult material, such as Wellbeing & Competence and Blokes Exclusively as well as Posh Rooftop Flats – formerly called Five Dwelling, of course. While they are waiting, customers chat about the local news and goings-on, and sometimes three or four of them sing a bit, too.
I had some trouble deciding what to call my business, as finding the catchiest name is compulsive. I toyed with several: Curl Up & Dye; Prime Cuts; Comb Fly With Me; Mane Attraction; Clippetty-Do-Dah; Shear Delight; Barber of De Ville; and Best Little Hair House in Town; but finally settled on Parting Ways [Editor’s note: Obviously, this was long before the times of either the Roman Emperors or Las Vegas, which is why he didn’t choose Scissor’s Palace.]
Now, Hamon, one of my friends from the Valley of Sorek, dated this really beautiful brunette named Delilah. She’s an absolute stunner, and frankly Hamon’s not anywhere close to being in her league. He’s a nice guy and all that but she’s looking for an adventurous, wild-at-heart kind of bloke. And she found one when Samson (yes, the same man who treated Stubnazzar’s jawbone so shamefully) came along and they got it together.
Delilah appeared to like Samson, but I’ve heard rumours that they only met after the local Philistines had bribed her into trying to discover his big secret about his strength. Now, knowing the way things worked out, I’ve realised she wasn’t a good person. She was happy to be bribed, and the Philistines were thoroughly nasty.
You see, to look at him, Samson was just another ruggedly handsome dude. Any woman he wants, he'll get, and he will break any heart without regret, probably.
But he had this extraordinary strength, as I’ve already mentioned. Not only did he do great damage to one thousand men with Stubnazzar’s jawbone, the story goes that he once tore a lion apart with his bare hands! And that tale is told with great awe by people who think it quite normal to be able to tear a young goat apart, which is something (I reckon) that would require considerable strength anyway, unless it was a very young goat, or one which had been slow-roasted for quite a while.
Samson’s reputation went before him. On the face of it he was just a carpenter, but there was a lot of talk about the day he’d killed one thousand men. It seems he got involved in a dispute with Philistines, and torched some farms, and it all got very nasty and ended up with Samson burning his first wife and her father, but not before three thousand Philistines attacked him and he swung Stubnazzar’s jaw… well, you know that bit.
Anyway, despite Samson being strong and violent and seriously dangerous at times, Delilah had him wrapped firmly around her little finger (or so she reckoned).
Once I’d checked out the woman, I could understand why men fall at her feet and drool. She was very easy on the eyes, with a bounteous figure, long, tanned limbs and lips that held such promise. Her eyes were that perfect shade of hazel, and everything about her oozed sensuality. It was extremely difficult to concentrate on what she was saying. Some might call her a sex-bomb – and she was primed and about to explode.
You see, she came into my shop one evening after I’d closed. I was very impressed, and not a little enchanted, I have to admit. Her perfume was potent. ‘I wasn’t going to visit, and Mama told me not to come, but I simply couldn’t stay away, darling!’
I began to wonder why, but wasn’t in any way wishing her gone. She asked a few questions about my experience as a barber, and then she sat down, crossed her lovely legs and started telling me about Samson. ‘He’s so determined, and so strong. But I really, seriously, need to know exactly where his strength comes from. So last night I just confronted him with the question.’
‘Oh, you should be careful,’ I said. ‘Word has it that his last wife tried to find out, and she ended up with crispy edges.’
‘M’mm, I’ve heard that. Usually, he’s calm, but there are times when something snaps. I think the mistake she made was that she whined and nagged at him until he caved in, and told her some other secret he was withholding from her. She blabbed to his enemies and he got very angry and it all went fig-shaped.’
‘Best not to upset him, then, Delilah,’ I said, with a smile.
She played with her hair, and smoothed her flimsy white dress over her long, slim thighs. ‘Well, as I say, I asked him outright about his amazing strength, and he told me that he would be helpless if I bound him with cords made from seven strands of brand new rope.’
‘I can’t imagine that would be suff…’
‘Please don’t interrupt me – although I have to agree that I thought it was an unlikely story. But I tried it anyway. A few nights ago we were in the textile mill (a place we often go) and afterwards he drifted off to sleep as usual. I bound his hands and feet while he slept, using the exact materials he had mentioned. But when the men came to take him away, I felt I had to warn him, so I called out “The Philistines are upon you!” and he woke up. He snapped the bonds like they were cotton threads and chased his attackers out of the place. Pathetic!’
She shook her head, and flicked a strand of hair that had fallen over her face (what a lovely face!) back behind her ear.
‘Why did you wake him?’ I asked.
‘Well, I do have some feelings for him, and it would look like I’d stitched him up big time if his enemies happened to come along just when I’d tied him up, wouldn’t it? Besides, I wanted to see if what he told me about the rope was true.’
She smiled at me, and my heart melted. She ran her long, slim fingers through her shining, gorgeous hair, and my lower jaw slackened in response. She made herself extremely comfortable on the cushion, and I yielded silently, enjoying every glorious moment in her enticing company.
‘Please go on,’ I said, feebly.
She smiled and continued her story. ‘Well, I told him I was disappointed that he’d fibbed to me, and he looked suitably ashamed of himself. So I asked him again to tell me the source of his strength. He admitted this time that it was his hair. “So, how can you be subdued?” I asked. He explained that the only thing strong enough to hold him down was the loom – did I say we usually make love in the textile mill, near the loom? Samson sometimes helps out with building the looms – you know, he got some string and he got some wood; he did some carving and he was good so they took him on. Anyway, that night I waited until he was asleep and took his hair and weaved it into the loom – into the fabric of the cloth that was being woven, and tied it all off with a pin, which held it really tightly. There was no way he was going to be able to pull his hair free.’
‘And did it work?’
‘It really did, although not the way I’d reckoned,’ she laughed. ‘When the blokes came in to attack him, I found once again that I couldn’t help myself, and I cried out “Samson! Wake up! The Philistines are upon you!” and he jumped out of bed, loom and all. He whirled it around his head using only the strength of his neck muscles, and did some serious harm to the attackers before they could get out of the way.’
‘Amazing!’ I chuckled, imagining the scene.
‘You’re right! Getting a loom in the face isn’t all that much fun!’
‘I can see this wasn’t going to be the long-term answer.’
‘Uh-huh. Oh, may I have a refill?’ She held out her wine cup, and I topped her up. The act of leaning forward had caused her hair again to flop over her face. She gently swept it back; she shifted herself on the cushion and ended up a little nearer to me.
I was enticed, bewitched, besotted and enthused.
She seemed quite taken with my locks. ‘Your hair is so lovely – you don’t mind if I…?’
I didn’t mind a little bit. I was simultaneously delighted and alarmed as she ran her long, slim fingers through my hair. This woman had what it takes and was willing to spread it around…
She put her hands back into her lap, looking for all the world as though she was only just resisting the temptation to kiss me. She managed, but as I say, only just.
Her tale continued. ‘I went all weepy and persuaded him to tell me the truth this time. He said he’d nearly told me last time – it is actually his hair, but he’s never had any kind of a haircut all his life, for some bizarre or obscure religious reason.’ She stopped talking and looked into my eyes. I surrendered.
‘Ah, I see.’ And, actually, I did. ‘It’s all starting to make sense now,’ I said, my voice shaking slightly. ‘You want me to creep into your room at night and give him a shaved head, right?’
‘Oh, would you? And I’d be ever-so grateful…’ She looked me up and down, and repositioned herself, ready to move closer.
‘I’d really like to help you…’ I was so eager, but suddenly my nerve failed me. ‘H’mm… but I fear that this time I’ll be the corpse if he wakes up and sees me there with a razor in my hand. Tell you what – I could lend you a razor…’
‘What do I have to do to persuade you to help me?’ she said with a pout. Her hand was on my leg; my morals were in the mangle.
‘It’s not that I’m unwilling, but it would be a crime to ever let you… I’m just thinking it might be more sensible for you to…’
‘But you’re the man with the skills and I thought you wanted to help me. I’d be terribly grateful, you know.’ She leaned forward, letting her tunic fall open slightly at the point of greatest strain, and brushed my face gently with her lips, simultaneously running her hand along the length of my thigh. She was so, so good at this!
I caved. ‘You can strop my razor whenever you want. There’s something about you, baby, I like! Tell me where and when to turn up, and I’ll give him a short back and sides, as we call it in the trade.’
‘What a sweetheart!’ she said, quietly. There was no need for her to speak loudly, as her face was very near to mine. She wrapped her hands around the back of my head, and kissed me on the lips. I lost my voice, my self-control and my ability to discern between breathing and drowning.
So, the game was afoot. That night, I went to the textile mill. The door was unlocked, just as she had promised. I slipped inside and went to where the couple were sleeping, near where the loom used to be. Delilah was on the mattress next to Samson, their hair spread out on their pillows.
Massively emboldened by the sight of this deeply desirable woman gently dozing, I woke her with a kiss. She took hold of my hands and drew me close.
‘Darling! Just help yourself to my lips, to my arms – just say the word, and they are yours!’ she murmured, and returned my kisses with some passion as I lay down beside her. I was troubled that Samson might wake up at any moment, but on the other hand I had never dared believe I’d be in her bedroom – on her bed – embracing her, and being welcomed like this! After what turned out to be just a disappointingly brief cuddle, (but with hints of so much more) she indicated that I should get on with the hair-cutting job.
I took out my razor and opened it, gingerly slicing a little off the length of one curl of Samson’s magnificent locks.
He didn’t wake at this, so I cut more and more – eventually, he was reduced to a short style reminiscent of the army. Then I gently placed my finger and thumb on his temples, and, with short, decisive strokes, shaved from his head the hair that remained.
He was still fast asleep (perhaps she had given him strong drink to induce stupor?), and utterly, amazingly, powerlessly bald. His head looked like a hard-boiled egg, dusted with fine black pepper.
I smiled at Delilah, and she patted my hand in thanks. She winked saucily, wiggled her cute little pussycat nose, and I reckoned I was on a promise. She went to the door to signal the attackers that the hair was gone. I knew it was high time I made myself scarce. I indicated that I would go, but she held my hand and whispered ‘No, don’t go, darling. When they have removed him, we can be alone together. And I’m sure you’ve been hoping I’d say that.’ Now, that was one flirty chick!
Obviously, stupidly, lustfully, I stayed.
The attackers burst in. Once again, Delilah shouted ‘Samson, the Philistines are upon you!’ and he woke.
He looked quizzically at Delilah, and frowned when he saw me. Then he noticed the hair all over the mattress. He ran his hand over his head, and shouted ‘No!’ He was just in time to be overwhelmed with extreme ease by the Philistines. His legendary strength had evaporated like the lavender oil hairdressing fragrance I use to keep lice at bay. The attackers wrestled him to the ground with punches and fierce rage, and held him there as one of them grabbed the razor from me.
I was horrified at what I witnessed; that barbaric Philistine used my razor to gouge out Samson’s eyes, slashing at his face with destructive savagery. There was blood everywhere. Samson roared in pain and rage and helplessness until they led him out of the textile mill and took him away into the night.
‘So, it was his hair,’ Delilah said.
‘Evidently,’ I replied.
She took my hand and whispered ‘You did very well. I am so grateful. Perhaps we can meet up some other time so that I can show you exactly how grateful I am, darling. But now, you’d better go. All this blood… makes it look like a crime scene, and we’d better get out of here.’
It had been a night of high emotion: I was aroused, then scared, then shocked; now frustrated… Surely she knew I had helped her because of the promise, but now she was denying me the pleasures? My passion turned to anger, and I retrieved my razor from where it had been discarded by the eye-gouger, and made my way home.
She was a wickedly immoral woman and I had been a love-sick fool – or perhaps just a lust-fuelled sicko.
I only ever saw her once more, several weeks after that dreadful night. She had never replied to my pleading love notes, and never returned to Parting Ways.
The time I did see her, she didn’t see me at all. It was the day of the Dagon sacrifice, where the Philistines gathered in their temple to worship their god. I was busy in Parting Ways when the procession went past outside, and I stood to watch briefly, and then Delilah went by. It suited her to have converted to Dagonism, I suppose. She was part of the procession, on the arm of a particularly handsome man (I recognised him as a well-known singer. It’s not unusual for her to mix with the wealthy and famous, I suppose). She was clearly spreading her affections about.
I asked my customers to sit tight and wait for me, as I put down my comb and razor and went outside to – well, I suppose I went outside to see Delilah. She had used me and I felt the need to confront her.
What was I going to say to her? I think I just wanted to ask why? Why? Why, Delilah, did you treat Samson so shamefully? You let him believe you were lovers (well, they were much more lovers that we had ever been, I realised) when all along you were plotting and being bribed to betray him. And why did you lead me on, entice me and stir up feelings inside me only to drop me like…? Well, I knew the answer to that, but I wanted to shout at her anyway. Surely she deserved some comeback for all the wicked things she had done?
I didn’t speak to her, as it happened, because as soon as I got outside Parting Ways, I saw Samson, being brought on a cart, with a bandage around where his eyes used to be. From what I could see, his scalp was no longer the shaven egg it had been; his hair had been growing.
They were clearly about to use him for entertainment. And despite the ways I had disdained him before, and been angry at him for the jawbone, I felt sad that such a mighty fellow should be reduced to this: a dancing freak at a pagan sacrifice-festival. That ain’t the way to have fun, son.
Anyway, the procession went on down the street and I returned to my customers.
Later that afternoon, there was the sound of an almighty crash from the town centre, and I joined the crowds who went to investigate. It seems that the Dagon’s Den, as the temple was called, had somehow collapsed, killing many of the thousands who were inside at the time.
We never heard of Samson again; we didn’t hear of Delilah, either. My guess is that they both died when the building accidentally fell down on top of them.
I couldn’t forget her, and I couldn’t get the image of her betraying him to those vicious Philistines out of my mind. I’m not proud of my involvement in the sorry tale; and I’m not proud of the disrespect I showed to Samson.
I do sometimes wonder what became of him, and why he grew his hair long, and what god he prayed to, and how his hair could be the source of his strength anyway.
Didn't meet Samson Judges 13:1–16:31
Delilah hires a barber to give Samson a trim and more
• What motivated the man from MulesRAss & Parting Ways to dishonour Samson? Do those temptations cause you to struggle? How can you protect yourself?
• Where did Samson get his strength? If not his muscles, was it really his hair? Do you have mighty locks?
• What really happened in Dagon’s Den? And what’s the significance of the hair re-growing? How many Tom Jones songs are mentioned?
