Shave and a Haircut

Well, today I decided I needed a haircut. So, I went on up and got myself one at the American Barber Institute. That’s right: Barber School. When I lived in the East Village I used to get my hair cut at the D&P Barber on 7th street and used to get blowouts at a joint on Avenue C that called it “big porn hair” and fed me cheap white wine, but nothing I’ve seen was quite like this. It was quite a scene. This is no Frederic Fekkai.  It’s on a pretty desolate stretch of 29th street off of 9th avenue, neon scissors buzzing in the window, you go in and slide a few singles through the kind of plexiglass slot they have at liquor stores in bad neighborhoods, you get a ticket, and are led into a big room full of barber stations, red vinyl chairs, terrazzo floors, and men. Lots of men. Apparently they don’t usually take girls, but my barber-  a sweet 18 year old named Everett Flint- has five older sisters and has been cutting their hair since he was 12… so… since I only needed a trim, I went for it. Did I leave feeling salon-fabulous? Not quite. But did I leave free of split ends feeling like I’d seen something pretty damn good today? Absolutely.

 

Image from here.

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Author: loiseaufait

Little by little the bird feathers its nest, and object by heart burnished object we surround ourselves with lovely necessities of memory and function. It is these things that make a silly Apartment a Home or a silly Wednesday an Occasion. Whether my nest is an old farmhouse, a sixth floor tenement walk up, or a brownstone basement... whether I share it with family, vagabonds, women of heart and mind, or a little brown cat and a sweet ginger banjo, my principal joy is filling it with light and laughter (and corralling).

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