Illustration By Michael Dwayne
I’m too old, too ugly, too contrary, too tight-fisted (with not enough clenched between said fist) and lastly, too devoid of hair over significant portions of my head to justify spending more than $12 on a haircut. (And that’s cost plus tip.) In fact, I am of the opinion that for any in my gender to sp/files/storyimages/more than that is patently ridiculous — exceptions granted, perhaps, to “metrosexuals,” male models or victims of hair plugs (who need to go to high-priced “stylists” for obvious reasons). In short, I go to an old-fashioned barbershop with everything but a striped pole rotating outside the door.
I’ve gone to that shop for more years than I can remember. And it is a barbershop in every sense of the word. There may be an occasional female customer (invariably elderly and from the surrounding neighborhood), but you won’t find Cosmopolitan or Vogue while you wait here, just The Sporting News and perhaps the diametric opposite of the aforementioned women’s magazines, Popular Mechanics. You also won’t find hip posters or prints on the walls; instead you’ll find business cards and flyers for neighborhood lawn-care providers and one computer-printed sheet — “Free Beer Tomorrow” — that somehow tickles me every time I visit.
After discovering the shop, I had one of the three barbers (I’ll call him “Gerard”) cut my hair exclusively. And this is where the plot thickens regarding my decidedly thinning hair: Artistic pique, I would learn, is not confined to the trendiest scissors-set operating in mood-lit salons with potted plants all around and techno-pop playing in the background. In a hurry once when Gerard was taken, I had another of the barbers cut my hair. (At $12 a whack, or actually series of whacks, can there be that much difference in quality from one barber to the next?) Apparently I committed a major faux pas, as Gerard won’t speak to me and hasn’t for some time. Worse, not realizing my offense when I went back to him after my innocent switcheroo, I got the distinct impression that he not only didn’t give me his standard stellar effort, but maybe sandbagged his abilities entirely.
No, I didn’t get a mohawk or “reverse mohawk” with a landing strip down the middle of my head. I did leave, however, with no sideburns after explaining, as I always did and still do, that I would trim them myself. At the time, I thought it was an honest mistake and not too, too bad. (Did I mention I ’m old and ugly anyway?)
As I am loyal to this particular shop (if not to Gerard, obviously), I’ve endured the silent treatment from him for maybe two or three years now. Amazement has turned to amusement over that time, and it ’s become a family joke, with my wife always asking after visits if Gerard spoke. Why she continues to ask is beyond me, but I think it’s my cue to relate the various ways in which he regards me as if I’ve been dipped in manure.
At first I was uncomfortable with the situation and considered finding another shop, but then realized that an old working colleague’s desktop sign advertising “good, fast, or cheap — pick two” just didn’t apply to my current barber. I get them all. My barber is excellent. There are no appointments to make, which stylists running behind schedule always violated in my younger, richer and hairier days. The cost is a bargain. And, given the quantity of hair still growing on my head, my haircut takes all of about, oh, four minutes.
As it’s been explained to me, though, a client is still a client. Evidently, that’s true whether it’s a salon, where I understand one stylist would indeed be miffed to lose a client to another “chair,” or in my barbershop.
I’ll confess to something, though, probably relating to deep-seated approval/rejection issues: I’ll sometimes call to see if Gerard is there. If it’s his day off, then the coast is clear for me to go in for my haircut without having to face coolness and barely concealed disdain.
The majority of the time, however, I simply face the music, or more precisely, Gerard, hurt feelings and all. I drop in hale and hearty, ignoring as best as I can his frigid reception. Smote lightly in the wallet and snipped satisfactorily on my head, I will continue to show up, leaving with a better coiffure if not forgiveness.
