Barbershop

My hair was getting pretty long, and since Chloe said she wasn't as confident with her scissor skills as she was with the clippers, I was forced to either cut it myself, go get it cut, get a buzz cut, or say I wasn't cutting it on purpose.

There is a haircut place in the same strip center as Noah's ninja school, so I figured since I was going to be waiting for him anyway, I might as well just get it done. The last time I waited for Noah I went to the liquor store in that shopping center, so a haircut was actually cheaper than going to the liqour store again.

The place is called "Troy Cuts." It used to be a "Procuts," "Sportclips," or some other chain thing, so I figured the chain moved out and one of the strongest took it over. Or something.

I was wroooooonng.

There was a black man sitting outside of the front door talking on his cell. He had the stylist's smock on, and he had a stylishly done doo. At this point, it doesn't occur to me that I'm about to walk into a Brotha's Barbershop type barbershop.

But once I did open the door, there was absolutely no mistaking it. They were loud, the three barbers all had clippers, and at that point, nobody was cutting hair...they were just cutting each other down.

It seems I had walked in just as they started the, "So, would you fight Mike Tyson for two rounds for 2 million dollars?"

Well, my hair was pissing me off so much that it was giving me headaches due to being in my eyes and such. I actually figured out that I was losing work productivity (posting to a Blog aside) due to having to get my hair out of my face so much. I wore some headband thing for a day to keep my hair out of my face, and that gave me a headache too.

So I was getting a haircut.

I walked up to the counter and the conversation in the place stopped. For a second there, I had this vibe that they thought I might be holding the place up or something. Or maybe it was just the, "Maybe he needs to use the phone, but daaaaaynng, hippy cud uz da fon nes doar."

I asked, "Do I need to sign in, or do I just sit down and wait?"

Duane said, "We'll be right with you. About ten minutes."

Sure enough, ten minutes later, Al told me to have a seat in his chair.

They were all still absolutely ripping on each other about "could/would you get in the ring with Tyson?" I obviously didn't know anyone there, but it was one of the funniest conversations I'd ever heard. They were talking about Tyson's intensity, had he lost his skills, had he lost his skills enough that they wouldn't get killed, that two million wasn't enough to go to the hospital, would you need to last the two rounds to collect, because he could knock you out with one body shot, I been a boxer before, and I know you can't handle what he got...and so on.

As soon as my butt hit the chair...I mean, as soon as my ass hit the plastic, Al asked me, "Tyson, two mil, two rounds?"

Since I haven't taken Barbeshop Talk 101, I wasn't sure if he was asking me if I thought I could do it or if he was asking me my opinion of what the other guys were saying, or if he was asking me if I thought he could (Al was the only one who said he would/could, and "Call him up right now and let's make this talk a reality").

So, I said, "It is gonna hurt, and there's gonna be some doctor bills, but two million will pay a lot of doctor bill."

The place erupted. I thought Al was going to hit his head on the floor he was laughing so hard, and after they all high fived, slapped hands, and half-hugged, Al lifted up my smock thing, grabbed my hand with his hand that was holding scissors had "brother hugged" me.

Either I was now the biggest punchline they were ever going to have, or I was "in."

But I still needed a haircut, and nobody had asked me a thing about my hair yet.

For the next five minutes, Al would walk up to me, start laughing, back up ten steps like he was about to fall, put his head on the wall or his hands on his knees, and then regain himself. Then he'd comeback to me.

Eventually, he finally spit it out, "So, what we gonna do here?"

I replied, "Get my hair out of my eyes, but I'm not looking to go real short or anything." He took the scissors and cut across my bangs as I would if I were cutting Reanie's hair.

Now, I really don't care about hair, hairstyle, or anything related to my coiffe...I'm just a guy who works from home, in an industry that puts hair under a helmet. Well, Chloe says she likes my hair long, and that is good enough for me, but I draw the line when my hair is annoying to me. Al took care of the part that was bothering me the most.

I sort of expected that he step back and say, "There you go," but he did get on with what seemed to be a normal haircut. He was using scissors in a way that didn't seem too unfamiliar, though it did feel like it did when Cami was in cosmetology school--the technique was there, but the practice was still stuttering, so the process was awkward, but we got there.

I kept expecting him to cut the back, but his method was different than any other haircut I'd ever received. Usually, the person cutting my hair does something with the scissors all over, and then they go in for the clean up and stuff. But Al, however, would make a few cuts with scissors on the right side, stop to talk on Troy's cell for one sentence, then he'd walk over to Duane and his client, make a comment or give his hug, and then he'd come back to me and do something with clippers or trimmers around my left ear.

While I'm sitting there, I've already resigned myself that this is gonna be one goofy haircut, but the experience was worth whatever it was going to cost in cash and waiting a couple months for it to grow out. My fall back is that I could always shave my head or something. That would be worth it for a couple of months.

Al kept working and talking and working and talking. It was the longest haircut of my life, and there was a clock right in front of me, so I was starting to stress a bit about Noah's class being dismissed, him getting worried since he could see the truck in the parking lot, but he'd never, ever think to look for me in Troy's. Heck, I could imagine Noah walking into the liqour store by himself, complete with Kung Fu suit, looking for me before walking into this place.

Al then brought out some sort of hair tonic, and he really got to work rubbing my head. He spent so much time working in that stuff on the front and top of my head that I felt like he must be painting my head or something. It felt wet and heavy, and I had visions of Rudolf Valentino, and there is no way I got game enough to pull that off.



He then took the clippers and a comb and before I could even wince, he was trimming my eyebrows (something I'd never done or had done, ever), and then he took those same clippers and was running them around my hairline. Up front too, making that widow's peak hairline more pronounced.

Mind you, I still didn't care that much how it was going to turn out, but I still wanted to see what was going on. At this particular barbershop, the barbers turn the clients away from the mirror. At no point was my chair facing the mirror, not even when Al was done.

He brushed me off with a nice fat brush that had some sort of powder on it. Between the good smelling powder and the good smelling tonic (really), I thought, "At least I'll smell good."

Then he'd run the clippers here and there even on the top of my head where there should have still been a couple of inches in length worth of hair. More brushing, more clipping, more trimming, more brushing...this was the most time intensive haircut I'd ever experienced, by about double. I thought, "Now we're done" a dozen times.

Al spent a solid hour on my cranium.

But during that hour, we talked about Tyson, someone fighting Foreman (now and in his prime), someone figthing Ali (now and in his prime), Ali fighting Tyson (now and in their prime), trying to score a touchdown in NFL football for 2 million, and "would you spike a volleyball against the women's olympic volleyball team for 2 million?" None of these were ever asked directly to anyone. They were just thrown out there for Troy, Al, Duane, the three people getting haircuts, and the three people just hanging around.

Well, I finally did get to look into Al's hand held mirror, and it didn't look like he'd cut much more than my bangs, but I was certainly contributing to the high gas prices, as I was slicked back, Jack. Except for the back, which was just as poofy, wild, scraggy and long as ever.

If my hair had been 1/16" shorter up top and in front, I'd have been in full on, not-just-saying-"mullet"-because-he-has-long-hair mullet, but actual, honest to goodness, 1978 Trans Am, mullet.



I paid Al, gave him a tip, and he shook my hand sincerely. As I left that place, it struck me that it had the same atmosphere as hanging out with tight friends and teammates, complete with brotherly love and put downs.

But the first thing I did was call Chloe to prepare her that I've got a Mullet Valentino thing going on. She laughed.

When I met up with Noah, he asked if I'd just taken a shower. Slicked back, Jack.

We motored home, and Chloe said, "It looks good! I don't know why you were all worried." But then I asked her to cut chunks off of the back anyway, just because it felt weird. She said, "Take a shower first, because you know freshly cut hair always looks different after a shower."

I said, "No" and went and got the scissors.

Chloe cut the back nicely, and now I have a style that is described by Chloe as, "All-American." Long way to get there, but now I've got a normal haircut.