The Hair's The Thing

My exquisite paramour, Amanda, tells me that she likes my hair as pictured on the right. It's slicked back with some pomade that's been manufacted since the 19th century. But I'm avoiding the inevitable, I need my hairs cut. It's been way too long between visits to the barbershop. Occassionally I will go to a salon in Harvard Square, but usually I find myself in a small, cluttered storefront shop getting a haircut from the owner and operator of the establishment. Two women own such a place in Davis Square (mother and daughter), but they are only open half the time, and it's tough to predict when. Going to Supercuts is like going to Starbuck's; I get what I need but a tiny part of my soul dies. Another problem with Supercuts is the random quality of the haircut. One day you might get Tina, and look fine. A few weeks later and you draw Bernice from the deck, and as a result can't go out without a hat for awhile.

My favorite barbershop experience is going to the one my father visits. Nobody there is under 70, the there are always at least three men talking and waiting their turn. They are often talking to each other in Greek, so I'm inclined to think that they are saying something about me in that ancient language. The last time I was there, several months ago, I got a lecture from the barber about the Greek battle for freedom against the invading Nazi horde. It was an appreciated lesson in history, but because of my relative youth I'm seen as a kid who should know this stuff already. As I sat there listening about the freedom fighters, I surveyed the eclectic mix of newspaper articles (now brown with age), religious icons, fishing trophies and a collection of hair-cutting equipment and styling products that look like they were taken from some sort of barber museum. The Hair in Face Museum, perhaps? And by "styling products" I mean cheap aftershave and Vaseline...lots of it. And over everything, including the statue of a bald eagle on the wall that stands as a maudlin testament to the owner's love and devotion to his new country, is dust. There is a lot of dust in that place, which makes it clear that the long-established routine is to unlock the door, cut hair, sweep it up, and go home. After my cut, I try to wave off the gob of Vaseline that, despite my best efforts, is bound for my noggin. Then they give me a lollipop.

The time has come for me to get a haircut. I'll try the place in Davis Square, and if that doesn't work I'll humiliate myself at Supercuts. I hope I get Tina.