Being 'settled' with a gentlemen's barber is not as cosy as it sounds.

My barber is called Adam. The perfect name, wouldn't you say? The old Adam. Except that my Adam is young. Young in years, that is, because of course the antiquity of his profession confers an unimpeachable gravity upon him. Which might be why he eludes my understanding. There is something ambiguously Dickensian about Adam. He looks and moves like a Clerkenwell scrivener, circa 1840, but when he whispers in my ear it is to tell me of the fleshpots of Sidcup where he dances away his nights. Is he trying to torment me? Sometimes I cannot decide whether the bend in his narrow body denotes servility or irony. It is possible he finds me risible. Or effete. The other day, for example, after reminding me that he had met "Mrs Jacobson" once, when she'd called to collect me - an event I was unable to remember or to fathom, for I am not, as a rule, a collectable man - he said: "Yes, a lot of wives, once their husbands have settled with a chap, like to come and meet him."

"Settled with" in what sense? Meaning that I'm satisfied with him? Well I am, but why would a wife come purposely to check on that? Surely he couldn't be saying that we've "settled down", or worse, "settled in" together! Is that what submitting the whole man to a barber entails? Are we a couple?

I've asked my wife what she thinks, but she won't say.

Jacobson, H. (1999, July 30). Being “settled” with a gentlemen’s barber is not as cosy as it sounds | The Independent. The Independent. https://www.independent.co.uk/arts-entertainment/being-settled-with-a-gentlemen-s-barber-is-not-as-cosy-as-it-sounds-1109654.html

Out take from the sequel to "House of Cards" by Michael Dobbs

"...But to merry hell with misery. He took himself off to the traditional, Paneled Salon of Trumpers in Curzon Street where Adam the young hairdresser set about his hair. That wasn't all. While he was cutting, Adam, also gave him an education, initiating him into the distinctions between heavy metal and funk. Good fellow probably wouldn’t like either, scarcely music at all but  He felt adventurous. Might give it a go. Perhaps Mickey would take him. And as they talked, Adam snipped away most of the dazzle and frosting and trimmed some style. Goodfellowe was left looking elegant, feeling refreshed. Not young enough for a bash at the LSE with Deaf Leopard, but perhaps, but at least he was still alive. He  also bought  a  new  silk  tie. Clothes were not Good­fellowe's strongest point, squeezed as he was between the twin aesthetic disasters of his bicycle and his bank  balance,  but  the new neckpiece was colourful and fun. Suddenly it mattered once more to Goodfellowe  what he looked like. And he took  himself off  to  the  House of Commons gym. For the first time in years Goodfellowe was reminded that he was a man of many parts - a spirit, a physique, a wit, an intellect - not just a machine designed for the drudgeries of  duty. He enjoyed  the gym, sweating away many of the years and  the worries he had brought with him. So, the next day, he went back. And the  next. By the  time Monday arrived,  the  day before their dinner, the twenty-year-old  that lurked deep inside had reasserted himself and he completed a full extra  circuit and an additional ten minutes on the rowing machine..."

Dobbs, M. (1998, January 1). The Buddha of Brewer Street. Harper