It was so perfect. No, that’s a lie; it was weird but comfortable. I’m talking about the relationship I have (had?) with my barber. She is a goofball crafted out of tattoos, existential struggle, and quality haircuts. Most of you probably know how to talk to the person who cuts your hair, or you don’t give a shit and go to Supercuts. I know enough to care, but my father was absent during those crucial years where a boy becoming a man learns “barberspeak”, so it’s a constant struggle. For years I maintained long, flowing blonde locks so heavy metal that if I even got near a barber shop it would explode.
So I found my self in my thirties awash in a sea of haircut ignorance. The haircut I wore when I got married was given to me by an ex-navy barber who worked in the basement of a Kraft Foods corporate building in Rye NY. It was not a good look for me. All of Manhattan scoffed. Barbers would ask what I wanted and I would mumble something about “This but a couple months less hair?”
Then, in 2010 I found her. I walked into a shop with decent yelp reviews and an aquarium that would depress Tim Burton. She asked me what I wanted and, cringing internally, I said, “I don’t know, short…?” She gave me a Daniel Craig James Bond cut. I looked so good I almost bought cufflinks. I decided at that moment I had to have her cut my hair all of the time, forever, because I could suavely say “the usual” as I flipped the pages of a barbershop Playboy and never worry again. Plus hot lather straight razor shaves are amazing.
I followed her through three different shops, even taking my son to her for his first cut, and was totally bummed when she moved away. My hair looked terrible for a year. Then I got a text: “Hey Whiskey, I just moved back, I don’t have a chair right now but I’m doing house calls.” Totally perfect. I could have her come over cut my kids’ and my hair and not even leave the house. I tipped her at congressional levels.
We had an appointment yesterday. She called early to ask if it was cool if her husband came too, because we live on the coast and they were hitting the beach after haircuts. They showed up and everbody made nice. I had the football game on the TV, so appropriate manliness was assured. I offered coffee or beer. She gave me the usual and we bullshitted through a “Bond.”
Then it was my son’s turn. He jumped into the chair with no problem and started chatting about light sabers or something and I sat on the couch with her man. We talked about the football game and RC trucks and then I glanced at the tattoo on his calf.
For a blissful second I thought it was a Slayer tattoo, and as I was about to identify myself as a fellow Slayer fan when I realized it was so much more. Where it should say “Slayer” a Swastika was sitting. I can tolerate a lot of shit but the one thing that I can’t tolerate is a commitment to intolerance. That and FUCKING NAZIS. And telemarketing, and Thomas Kinkade’s art. But primarily NAZIs. Fuck those guys.
I hope Slayer doesn’t sue us over this but here is a quick guide to OK with me and not OK with me.
So now here I sit lost again doomed to a sea of haircut ignorance because this dude does not abide. Also if you read about some creepy “family of five murdered in botched home invasion robbery in Los Angeles,” do me a solid and mention this post. Thanks.