Cuts or Styles

I don't care too much about my hair. My main concern when getting a haircut is price. I consistently ignore hair products like gels or hairsprays, preferring to leave the house with something resembling the infamous Chia-Pet on my head. As a swimmer in high school, I did terrible things to my hair. I frequently went outside in the dead of the upstate New York winter with wet hair and broke the hair-cicles that formed on my head. Later, I shaved my hair off completely. However, I don't just haphazardly select a place to get my hair chopped down to a manageable length; I consider the "intangibles."

When I was younger, I preferred the local barber. I went to Lou's Cut & Style for my regular haircuts. Lou's shop was within walking distance; he became not only my barber, but also a friend. His establishment's name is not very accurate, though; there is very little styling occurring there. In fact, I sometimes left thoroughly entertained, but wondering if Lou actually cut my hair.

Like most barbers, Lou watched sports on television, adorned his walls with local sports paraphernalia, and maintained a large supply of sports magazines. Lou also offered free coffee that received looks of disgust, free beers to his favorite (and - usually - 21 and older) customers, and the opportunity to review the latest Playboy while getting your haircut. Unfortunately for me, I have very poor eyesight, so sans glasses while in the hotseat, I was never able to take advantage of either the Playboys or the televised sports on. Instead, I listened to Lou's always entertaining, although sometimes unbelievable, stories. He talked about the famous people whose hair he cut. He talked about his cooking skills. He talked about his exploits in the hockey rink and on the golf course. Most of all, Lou shot verbal barbs at anyone who dared walk into his barbershop.

When I moved to New York City, I tried to find a barber like Lou who offered that type of atmosphere. Not an easy task. The first barbershop appeared to be exactly what I wanted. I walked into the basement to find two gruff old barbers speaking animatedly to each other and their customers. I waited patiently, leafing through their various men's magazines. It was like sitting in the front row, enjoying the comedy stylings of the Barber Boys. It felt like Lou's.

When it was my turn, my barber reached his thick hand to take my glasses and place them on the counter. That's when I saw them. Big, bloody, hairy, gnarled knuckles. Thoughts of communicable diseases flew through my mind as I slowly passed him my glasses. I couldn't muster a conversation, so he continued his repartee with his co-worker. I steeled myself for the 10 minute cut, longing for the chance to get out of there with my health intact.

When he finished, he surprised me. "Shave?" he asked, picking up a blade and a thick shaving brush. The thought of his knuckles scraping against the sharp edge made me a little queasy, but I'd always wanted a straight razor shave. "Sure," I said. I laid back for one of life's great simple pleasures. He pumped the white foamy cream out of a whizzing contraption on the counter. He applied the hot cream to my face, a comforting feeling running from the nerve endings in my face to the rest of my body. The razor slid across my face, clicking the stubble off - I've never had a closer shave. The pure exhilaration of this shave almost made up for the bloody knuckles. Not quite, though. I never returned.

Later, I found another barber near my apartment. This establishment also appeared to be exactly what I wanted: two older men cutting the hair of their friends. They even had a spinning barber pole outside. It went downhill from there.

The door was locked when I arrived; they buzzed me in. Why such security? From the moment I sat down in my chair, I worried for my life. I kept envisioning a Godfather-like gangland drive-by shooting, my limp body sliding down into the clumps of variously colored hair on the floor below me. The last straw was the lack of communication. The barbers spoke only Spanish. I could tell that the same kind of joking I enjoyed at Lou's was flying in Spanish through the stale air in the shop. Unfortunately, I was unable to reach up and grab it. I never felt a part of the community there. I left with a bad taste in my mouth and an equally bad haircut.

I gave up on finding a local barber like Lou. I decided to go in the complete opposite direction. I found a stylish salon. I sat down to wait alongside women wearing aluminum foil hats and sitting under strange lamps. Instead of old, gruff men, the employees of this establishment were all young, attractive Russian and Asian women. One young blonde Russian brought me to the back of the shop to wash my hair. The warm water soothed me while the petite woman displayed tough hands, giving me two scalp massages: once for the shampoo and again for the conditioner. I was very relaxed when she finished and walked me over to my stylist, an equally petite Asian woman. Like the Russian, she spoke almost no English, but I was able to communicate what I wanted with the few hair-related words she understood. With no way to communicate, I sat in silence. However, they played loud dance music, so I stayed entertained throughout my blind wait for the woman to finish her job. She even took the effort when she was done to remove the stray hair from under my seat with a blow-dryer before I got off the seat.

All in all, this salon was a satisfactory experience. I didn't try another barber or salon in the city. Now that I've moved to the Amherst, Massachusetts area, I am on the lookout for my next barber or salon to cut my hair. If the timing works out, however, I'll go back to Lou's when I visit my family. Lou still gives me a haircut that can be defined as average at best. But he also gives me the entertainment I've come to love. Besides, the price is right.