I love traditional barbers. There's something sensual about the feel of the razor on your scalp, or the blade on the back of your neck, and then the sting of aftershave. It's the last place where American men can be butch, intimate, and hetero.
It's hard as hell to find that in my neighborhood. Billy's in Hale`iwa is great. I've heard there is one on Monserrat, but I haven't made it down there yet. But in my neighborhood? Nada. There used to be an old Japanese guy I liked. He didn't speak much English, and never asked how I wanted my hair. I just sat down, and he cut. He also gave a great massage afterwards. I think that must be an Asian tradition. It's one I like, a lot.
But the Japanese guy is long gone. Today I went to SuperCuts. I was in a hurry, it was close by, I didn't want to wait another week - all lame excuses, I know. I wasn't expecting anything great, but this woman was horrible. Every few minutes she would pull up a strand of hair and ask me how long I wanted it. Or what blade to use. Or how high up to blend - an endless chain of manini questions.
And ya know what? I don't fucking know. I don't know how high the fade goes. I don't know what number of blade to use. I don't know how many inches to leave. What I know is that I could walk into Billy's and say can you clean me up? and it would all be good.
Supercuts Woman was not all good. There was no pleasure in feeling the clippers against my head today. She dove in like a bird, like some intoxicated woodpecker in search of his last meal - clunk! the clippers would hit my head, then back out and clunk! they would come in at another angle. My dentist has more finesse. And the ultimate shocker was that SuperCuts has gone up in price - the bill was $14.58! That part sucked the most, because it only left me 42 cents to tip her.
The good news today? I just heard the rumor that Fantasia might have scored a lead in the Dreamgirls movie. That would be too fucking cool; I hope it's true.