Birvidik

Some time ago, while moored up in Xania, I was approached by a holidaymaking adolescent who enquired as to how we funded such a desirable lifestyle. At least, I think that’s what he wanted to know. What he actually said was “Yo Bro, ‘Ow you do for readies, giving it large on a boat aller time like dis?”

When I explained that I was in receipt of both an occupational and a State pension, he responded with “Whoa, ‘ow cool is that – you ponce around onna boat and dey gives you readies for not working innit? Respect! ‘Ow peeps do this sorta fing if they not nine ‘undred and seventy and falling to bits like what you is?” This I translated as an expression of admiration for our current financial independence coupled with a query as to how such a desirable state of affairs could be arrived at without the irritation of advancing years, deterioration both physical and mental, and a lifetime’s penury resulting from paying into pension schemes.

The young holidaymaker’s question also occupies the minds of many would be liveaboards. The vast majority of cruisers do seem to be retired or of seriously independent means. However, if you are neither then you are going to need to find some way of getting hold of what my new young friend colourfully referred to as ‘readies’. And for most, this means working.

The question frequently posed by such wannabee cruisers usually centres on determining the best skill or trade for attaining the aforementioned readies whilst following a liveaboard lifestyle. Take it from me – it definitely isn’t writing. Neither, contrary to popular belief, does the answer lie in the traditionally highly paid professions such as law, banking, private medicine or being the Head of a large secondary school in Kendal. These may be a licence to print money in one’s home country but the equivalent professional associations in the country in which you find yourself cruising will certainly have the whole thing stitched up. I.T. geeks may be able to earn money going online and getting computers to do all sorts of clever things that nobody in his right mind would ever want them to do, but this doesn’t really count as working abroad. I’m not sure it even counts as working.

Indeed, it is the very nature of having to compete with the locals that poses the primary problem, irrespective of the nature of your trade or activity. You’re not going to compete on price, not at their wage rates, so your best bet is to try to capitalise on your fluency in English and your familiarity with the home cultures of your proposed cruising clientele. Beware, though - the former is not necessarily a walkover. Many Greeks speak better English than do many native speakers; certainly better than did many of the kids I used to teach.

In addition the local artisans take a very dim view of interlopers muscling in and creaming off their livelihoods. All manner of barriers are in place, some subtle, some legal, some most definitely neither, so your best bet is to go for a trade that can be operated under the radar, preferably in the privacy of either your boat or your customer’s.

I have identified the ideal business for these circumstances and will happily pass it on at no further charge.

It is hairdressing.

More precisely, ladies hairdressing. Men will, grudgingly, submit to the ministrations of a hairdresser only after extended nagging from their wives and the threat of withdrawal of services á la Lysistrata. Left to their own devices most male cruisers would neglect their personal grooming until in danger of being mistaken for Bigfoot. By this stage they are usually forced to do something by the fact that their eyebrows have started to obstruct their watchkeeping abilities and that they keep getting their beards caught in their fly every time they have a pee. This latter phenomenon explains the curious hunched, shuffling gait often displayed by male yotties exiting the marina toilet facilities. At busy times it looks like an amateur production of Snow White.

No, Mr. Yottie considers a once over with a set of sheep shears sufficient for presentation at Buckingham Palace. The attentions of a professional hairdresser are de trop, and any other form of grooming, such as trimming nails or nostril and ear hair, raise suspicions of effeminacy at best. Using product in one’s hair is considered as camp as a row of tents and is frequently met with social ostracism or nervous and defensive body language coupled with calls of ‘Backs to the wall, lads!’ when the person concerned enters the bar. Over-frequent changing of socks and underwear is usually grudgingly tolerated as an endearing personal quirk.

Lady yotties, however, take a far more civilised perspective and news of the arrival of a proper, professional standard hairdresser in the marina or anchorage spreads like wildfire through the lady yottie community. Mobile phones glow red as they transmit both the good news and the reciprocal squeals of girlish delight. A queue rapidly forms along the pontoon and, in extremis, crowd marshals have to be deployed.

The reasons for the popularity of yottie hairdressers are many. For a start, the common language enables a better and more accurate discussion and description of desired styles. In addition, ladies hairdressing is a social grooming activity mediated by both touch and language, and moderated by cultural norms. These requirements are difficult to fulfill completely in a foreign salon, with its different cultural expectations and with communication being carried out in at least one person’s second language.

I have a confession to make. I have been spying on my wife’s diaries. I’m not suspicious, just nosy. I’m also desperate for copy for this blog. As a result of my snooping I have discovered that there is another, over-riding, reason for the on-board hairdresser’s popularity and it is this:


The client doesn’t have to sit through the whole procedure in the unforgiving glare of a bank of WWII anti-aircraft searchlights while staring at herself in a mirror the size of Jodrell Bank.


Liz hates this and so is usually loth to get her hair cut until her barnet approaches Tina Turneresque proportions. Her diary entry explained one such occasion in pitiless detail.

Having kicked herself into gear to make the appointment she reluctantly entered the salon and was ushered into a chair under the obligatory floodlights and in front of the obligatory mirror. On this occasion she had the added bonus of being stuck under a radiant heater that would have been equally at home on the bridge of the Starship Enterprise. She was then plonked in front of the mirror to cook for half an hour, with nothing else to do but look at her face.

Now Liz has a slightly lop-sided smile, which I find achingly attractive and have done ever since we met 43 years ago. The right side of her face drops slightly more than the left. I’ve seen photographs of her aged five which still displayed this feature, so it’s not exactly novel. Nevertheless, its existence seemed to have passed her by. This was the first time she had noticed it.

It didn’t take her long to come to the conclusion that she had, without her noticing, suffered either a stroke or a sudden attack of Bell’s Palsy. She spent a while pushing and pulling with her fingers to see what she would look like if she could correct this asymmetry. Throughout this she was oblivious to the increasing stares of the other customers.

Engrossed, she decided to try to get rid of her frown lines using only her facial muscles. This gave her a rather startled look and the stares of the other customers gave way to nudges, ‘pssst’ noises and surreptitious murmurings. Noticing this, she reverted to trying her Yogic Zen look. This just resulted in a rather vacant expression that only lacked the drool, the unfocussed eyes and the attendant ICU machinery. The other customers were just about to call the emergency services when the hairdresser returned and snapped Liz back to the real world.

It was at this point that it all fell into place and Liz fully appreciated why she hated going to the hairdresser’s:

There are none of these problems with the on-board cruising salon – no nervous fellow customers and, more to the point, no mirrors and no searchlights. There is just no room for such Guantanamo Bay accoutrements within the confines of a small boat.

Vive la coiffure Anglaise!