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.