Inflation in the Industry of Interested Barbers
Inflation in the Industry of Interested Barbers – A Literal Tale Without Hidden Meanings Where I Don’t Try To Be A Hipster
By Bryan May
Six, seven, eight kids were huddled on the sidewalk preparing to unleash their balls on the sky above. They had purchased them from the “Icy Ball” machine, which housed half rubbers and half gums. These kids ran through enough of their mom’s quarters to obtain six, seven, or eight gums. Finally, after attempts in the teens, they acquired eight of the rubber variety. All at once they scattered, forming a circle, which I was dangerously close to walking into. Then they whirled their arms in glorious windmill fashion, and on the third rotation slammed their balls downward into the concrete.
It was at a point where the tuft of hair was overlapping my shirt collar, and if not properly groomed, would resemble a short mullet. A short mullet almost being worse than a long mullet, because my short variety clumped up and was starting to look plain stupid. Not only that, but amongst the mull resided the off-kilter ducktail that forms when my hair grows long. Well, it would never be construed as “long,” but long enough to make a short-hair sporting guy like myself uneasy. The fact being in order to maintain the kempt standards necessary for success, I needed a trim. Overriding fact being that I have needed a trim for weeks. No time to spare? Not even for a snip here and a snip there? Nope. Not even time for a snip here or asnip there. It was around 2:00, and you know how deep I get. Saturdays are the same as the rest, so I’d inevitably be leaving at some double-digit PM time. Since there are no official deadlines today, I will force myself to get multiple snips, that’s what I decided. I spun out a quick Google search for barbershops in the area, and discovered an old tyme spot down the street. That’s it! Break time! I jumped up from my dialog boxes and unread messages and took a jaunt down the hall to the elevator. It wasn’t raining, but “it” wanted to. The kids were poised to slam their balls, and I was on my way for a haircut.
“Barber shop,” he had answered when I phoned earlier in the day. He sounded asleep, or maybe it was just me projecting sleep on someone else, seeing that I hadn’t enjoyed the luxury in the last two days. “Yes, I wanted to come in for a haircut today. Do I need an appointment?” “If you come now, no. Later, maybe.” “Ok, then I’ll come now.” Now turned out to be two hours, but when I opened the door I wasn’t too worried about getting the opportunity to be squeezed in. It was dark and crisp in there, with classical music blaring. An old Italian man who stood about 5’5” approached me. “You the guy who called a couple hours ago?” “Yes.” I smiled and nodded, he grinned and nodded. He had cuts on his face and a beanie on his head, both of which I found odd. The heater was raging and it was quite warm in there, and as for the cuts, well…
“You want this gone?” He spoke in a thick accent as he grabbed a handful of my tuft. “Yes. Exactly.” “I clean this up, make it slick.” “Yes. Exactly.” We were in perfect harmony with our stylistic tendencies for my look to be. You know what I heard someone say today? Well, let me preface that by saying we are in an open forum type of atmosp here at work, and you can hear a lot when you aren’t preoccupied by your own phone call. Today someone said, “oh, you know him? Tall with black hair? Yeah, that’s Bryan.” How come everyone always says I have black hair? My hair isn’t black, is it? My mom used to always correct my grandmother when she said I was so handsome when I “let my black hair grow long.” Long by her standards meaning, “not shaved,” as I had a propensity for steps and fades growing up.
“You have good, black hair. Sicilian?” I guess I do have black hair. A barber would know, I suppose. He’s seen enough of it, especially in the fifty plus years he’s been here. “No. Well, maybe a little.” Truth is, I have no idea as to my exact heritage other than ¼ Armenian [although I pronounce “tabouleh” wrong], and 1/16th Cherokee Indian. Yeah, the white man stole my land, and I’m all fired up about it. Luckily, I got handed a couple casinos, eMarketMakers is just my side job. Too bad I’m not 1/8th, actually, because I knew this kid in high school who was 1/8th and homeboy got all kinds of Native American scholarships and grants and loans and casinos handed to him. Did I ever tell you about the restaurant I want to open? The first truly American dining experience, “The Cherokeatery.” No reservations allowed.
While I was sitting in the chair, I started to notice the memorabilia on the walls. It was a fascinating outfit, everything was an antique. I was looking straight ahead into the mirror and saw the barber grab the clipper and plug it in. His hands were shaking like he was on the playground about to cop a feel for the first time. Face with nicks, palsy-ridden trembling hands, freshly shaved, as I added the elements I became more concerned with the likelihood that I would receive an acceptable trim. Basically, he can do whatever he wants as long as those sheers don’t end up in my eye. That and I will not stand for the “over the ear” look that so many barbers falsely inflict upon their subjects. The perfect “short” haircut is one where the clippered hair meets the top and front portion of the ear so that no bare skin is exposed. Things get all mussed when the hair is clipped too high and there is naked skin between your shortened side-of-the-head hair and your ear. The old man is still grinning. He hasn’t stopped grinning since our initial contact. The best thing ever is that he turned the wire antenna television to face my chair but then left it off. Why turn the TV on when the classical music is blaring out of a static-ridden radio? But I will say, with each stroke and clip and cut and powdered face brush-off, I became increasingly confident that he knew exactly what I wanted. It was the kind of situation where even though there was no posted rate sheet, you couldn’t ask. It was obviously too late now, but you can’t ask upon arrival either. Perhaps I could have inquired on the phone, but whatever. Not my scene. His hands were shaking all over the place, but my slick-o-meter was climbing, so rage on, brother! Suddenly my eyes caught something in the mirror, a list of posted rates.
Trim $25
Haircut $30
Long Hair: $40 to $50
More: Over $50
“More?” What the hell does that mean? Wait, I know I’m not “more,” so let’s get back to the more significant number. Haircut- $30?! At a barbershop? Maybe that’s why he was grinning so damn much. But as he was finishing up I was feeling oh so right.
The vacuum to the neck grand finale really sold me. As the apron was removed I stood up and felt genuinely refreshed for the first time in months. Ok, days. Nah, months. “Great. I like it. How much?” “Thirty. I give you deal. See,” he said, as he gestured to the rate board. “Long hair, $40 to $50.”
Bryan May
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