*/Begin Rant/*
The
world is being overtaken. Slowly, but surely, a
horde of
mousse-wielding
stylists is displacing one of America's greatest demographics. The
Barber.
The Barber is the man who will cut your
hair for six bucks in
under twenty minutes. He's the man whose only
tools are a
trimmer, a pair of
scissors, and a
comb. His
shelves hold no
shampoo, no
mousse, no sea
kelp fucking protein
rinse. Maybe some
gel. Maybe.
These fucking salons, dotting the
landscape like pustules on a donkey's
ass, have become so
prevalent that sometimes you have to drive miles out of your way just to find a
barber pole. In
Poughkeepsie, at dear old
Marist College, I have found one. It is attached to a little hole-in-the-wall
barbershop on
Route 9. Run by three old
Italian men, it has no
name. Among my housemates, going to get a
trim is referred to as "visiting the
three wise men."
You walk in and take a seat. There's always
Sinatra on the
radio. The magazines are a month old, with titles like "
Popular Mechanics", "
Sports Illustrated", and "
Time."
When your
turn comes up, there is no "So, how about a little
color?" or "Oh my God, you would look
FABULOUS with a
weave." It's just "So, what're we doing here?" The snip of scissors and the buzz of a trimmer are
punctuated by "Man, those fuckin
Mets, huh?" and "
Jesus Christ, kids these days, ya know?" The finished
product is displayed with two mirrors and a "This good
enough? Wouldn't want you to be too
pretty, now." The charge is eight bucks, I hand them a ten, refuse
change, and leave happy.
Why is this sublimely
masculine tradition dying out? Why have we as a
society sold our souls to stylists?
Fucked if I know.
*/End Rant/*