It’s weird seeing yourself in the paper. I remember being featured once as a child. We’d gone away down south on an Easter break when I was seven or eight. I can’t remember exactly where – and it’s not like I have anyone to check with – but I’m fairly sure it was in Devon. It was definitely near the sea: I remember walking along some sprawling sandy beaches. I desperately wanted to go in the water, but I wasn’t allowed because it was way too cold.
Anyway, one morning, the three of us were walking along the main street in whatever town we were visiting that day and we got stopped by a young reporter. I remember him being covered in spots, proper acne, and for some bizarre reason, finding that a desirable look. Dad wound me up for years about that. Apparently, I whispered something to him along the lines of: ‘What does that man have on his face? It looks really cool.’ This never failed to make both him and Mum roar with laughter whenever it got brought up afterwards.
The reporter was looking for a child around my age to pose for a photo as part of an April Fools’ Day prank. He said he’d picked me because I had a cheeky look about me, although with hindsight I was probably the first kid of the right age to walk past.
‘What would he have to do?’ Dad asked, to which Spotty explained that I’d need to pose for some pictures with a huge ice cream – and then I’d get to eat as much of it as I could manage.
That was all it took to get me interested. At that age, ice cream was probably my favourite food in the whole world. So we trundled along to a café around the corner and there, as promised, they made this ridiculously large cone with about twenty scoops of various flavours, held together with a long metal spike.
I had my photo taken holding it, tongue out ready to lick, and then they put all the ice cream into a huge bowl and I ate as much as I could until I started to feel sick.
A couple of days later, on 1 April, we picked up a copy of the paper – and there I was on the front page.
‘You’re a celebrity now,’ Mum told me. ‘How does it feel?’
‘Not just any celebrity either,’ Dad added with a wink. ‘Luke’s a front-page star, my love, and don’t you forget it.’
They must have bought about twenty copies of the paper to give to family and friends, and a cutout of the article remained on our kitchen noticeboard for years, gradually yellowing with age.
I remember being a bit taken aback initially, but as the day went on, I started to quite like the idea of being famous. Dad kept nudging me while we were out and about, claiming people were looking and pointing at me. He even got me to practise my signature in case someone wanted my autograph – and sure enough, when we were out for dinner that night, the waiter came over to ask me for it, saying he was honoured to have someone so important as a guest in his restaurant.
I realised years later that Dad had set the whole thing up, even though he never admitted to doing so. It was a typical Dad-style stunt. He was always great fun like that: a friend as much as a father to me, particularly when I was little. Don’t get me wrong, Mum was brilliant too. She always had a big smile on her face and a wonderful ability to see the silver lining in even the gloomiest of situations. They were both always on hand as playmates, so I never especially minded being an only child. I think Dad often stands out in my memory because he had such a great sense of humour. He was forever making me and Mum laugh.
They were both such warm, happy people. I wish I’d ended up more like them.
As for the news story that landed me that front page, it was a purely fictional affair – as April Fools’ Day articles are wont to be. The line was that I’d supposedly walked into the café on my own, ordered the biggest ice cream they’d ever heard of, eaten it and then confessed to having no money. I’m sure it didn’t take the paper’s readers too long to twig it was a joke.
All the same, it was a great tale to tell my friends when I got home. I took the newspaper into school and my teacher even read it out to the class. Being as gullible as I was at that age, my pals were gobsmacked to hear about the autograph incident. I think for a while they genuinely believed I’d become famous over the holidays.
Now I find myself on the front page again as an adult – and this time it’s in Friday’s Manchester Evening News, which does actually feel like quite a big deal to me. Nora’s article isn’t on the front, but one of the pictures of me is there with a taster headline, guiding people to read all about it on page seven, where there’s a prominent page lead.
I agreed for her to come and interview me on Monday morning, four days after she’d first called in, when the barbershop would usually have been closed. This meant no customers getting in the way of our chat – although, of course, a couple did try their luck despite the CLOSED sign and I did my best not to bite their heads off. It also meant more natural light for the pictures, which the photographer that Nora brought along with her – a fellow freelance called Rudy – was keen on.
Nora had initially suggested turning up to the next free cuts session. But in light of the poor turnout last time, I told her I was keen to hold that after publication, so the article would hopefully promote it. She agreed and, sure enough, there’s a decent plug for next Monday’s planned session in the piece. As I look at this, it both excites and terrifies me all at once. My major concern now is whether I’ll be able to keep up with demand.
Relax, I tell myself, sitting alone in the barbershop just before midday, waiting for my next customer. Stop thinking like a glass-half-empty person. This is amazing free publicity. And yet, even as this thought occurs to me, that old negative voice in my head is chattering away in the background, saying I look ridiculous in the photos: my cheeks too flushed and my teeth not white enough.
It is a really good article, I must admit. It’s more or less exactly what we discussed it would be, focusing primarily on the free haircuts, while still acknowledging the impact of the scaffolding incident and the role it played in leading me to this place. Nora had convinced me that a brief mention of this would give the story greater depth and increased human interest appeal. So I told her an edited version of the truth, skipping the part about trying to turn myself from pessimist to optimist, and focusing on how Iris’s death had inspired me to do something meaningful.
I’m accurately quoted in the article as saying: ‘I decided to put my barbering skills to good use somehow. This is about me trying to help the needy in my own small way, paying tribute to Iris and her plans to be a volunteer doctor in Africa, which she tragically died before realising.
‘I only got to know her very briefly, but she was clearly a wonderful woman with such a drive to help others. I had to do something in her honour.’
My mobile rings and I see it’s my cousin. She rang earlier, having already got hold of the paper, sparking me to pop over the road to the nearest newsagent to grab myself a copy.
‘Well?’ she asks as soon as I pick up. ‘Have you got one?’
‘Yep.’
‘So, what do you think?’
‘I’m pleased.’
‘You don’t sound it. You’re on the blooming front page, Luke. How often in their life can someone say that?’
I don’t have the heart to tell her it’s my second time, assuming she doesn’t remember the April Fools’ Day article all those years earlier. She no doubt heard the story as a girl, but since she wasn’t there when it happened, I’m not surprised it’s slipped her mind.
‘I’m really pleased with the article, Meg. Thanks for helping to arrange it.’
‘That’s better.’ She chuckles down the line. ‘You still don’t sound that happy about it, though. What’s up? Are you embarrassed by the attention?’
‘No, not really. It’ll be someone else’s turn in the limelight tomorrow. If anything, my main concern now is that we’ll be swamped next Monday and I’ll struggle to cope. Are you still able to help?’
‘Definitely. I only wish I could be more useful to you and actually get involved with the cutting. I mean, I could have a go if you like, with the clippers or whatever, but—’
‘I’m sure we’ll manage and it won’t come to that,’ I say, silently horrified at the idea of Meg making a hash of some poor guy’s first haircut in ages.
Changing the subject, I ask about the drink she went for with Ciara, her psycho ex-girlfriend, in return for her help arranging the window banner for the barbershop. The meet-up was scheduled for last night.
‘Don’t ask,’ she replies.
‘Come on, Meg. You have to give me a bit more than that.’
‘Well, things started off all right, but before I was halfway through my G&T, she made a couple of comments that really sounded like she’d been stalking me on social media.’
‘What kind of comments?’
‘Oh, I really don’t want to go into it, Luke. Let’s say she knew a bit too much about what I’ve been up to over the past few months. It rang alarm bells; I made my excuses and left.’
‘No chance of any further fancy banners, then?’ I ask as a gentle wind-up.
‘Definitely not. And don’t say I told you so.’
‘As if I would,’ I reply with my tongue firmly in my cheek.