the quest for a good barber
Finally got my hair cut today. I think it's been a few months and, even though my hair is long now, it still needs cleaned up once in awhile. So I noticed this nice looking salon on College Ave. It's called "Great Lengths" and has a really dark, woody feel to it. Felt almost medieval. Felt almost like a cigar lounge.
Except for all the women and hairstylists, of course. In fact, aside from the dark, rich mahogany there was absolutely nothing manly about this place.
But I've learned that "Old Joe's barbershop" probably isn't going to give me quite the attention I'm looking for. In fact, I realized that I've always been seeking that "perfect hair experience" and I've never quite found it. Let's take a trip down memory lane, shall we?
[begin dreamy reminiscing
sequence]
• I guess we'd have to start at the beginning. Mom. A set of old fashioned hair clippers. The big black high chair in the basement (or outside on the picnic table in the summer). "Now don't move or I'll gouge ya." Yeah, she used to say that. (Sorry, mom, but I'm bound to the truth here.) I remember the soft brush that was made out of horse hair or something that she would use to dust us off when we were finished. I liked that. But times change and your mom can't cut your hair forever.
• At some point in the growing up process, Dad took us boys to the "Golden Shear". Two old guys in an ugly brick building with a barber pole out front. There were swords hanging on the pegboard walls and styptic pencils for sale at the counter. They did most of their work with the old-fashioned clippers and various lengths and styles of attachments. They had a vacuum cleaner built into the wall, the hose of which they used to dust you off when you were done. Not quite the horsehair duster that mom used. One of their names was Bernard, can't remember the other.
I remember going to them religiously throughout high school, probably every two months or so. And I really wanted to have a relationship with my barber just like they had on the Andy Griffith Show. I wanted to be able to shoot the breeze with them, talk about world events, tell them my problems, listen to their problems, etc. I remember one time, walking out after my post-cut vacuuming and offering my hand in greeting. "My name's Doug," I said. "Bernard," he said, offering his own hand back. "Good to meet you. See you next month."
My hopes were dashed when he didn't remember me the next time. Or the next time. Or the next time. Ah, well. Maybe it takes decades to build up that kind of a rapport with a barber.
• In college, I went through a wide range of barbers, hairstylists, and everything in between, from someone who must have been Bernard's cousin to a slightly over-flamboyant gay man (just because I'm gay doesn't mean I want my barber to be on fire). Anyway, they all fell short of the grail. I was looking for someone special. Someone who made me feel like both a king and a friend. Someone who knew what they were doing, was guided by inspiration, and tempered by a healthy knowledge of what is still considered masculine (I'll never forgive that woman in 6th grade who whipped out a curling iron on me). And someone who remembered my name. But this person was not to be found in Ithaca, NY. The search continued . . .
• During college, I worked over the summer at Neubert Painting (wow, they have a website now!) and so I lived back home in Cleveland with Corey. Down the street from our warehouse on Madison Ave. (among the most bars and pubs per square mile in the United States) was a small, clean, unassuming little barber shop. Most of the guys from work went there, so I gave it a try. I was impressed. Not only did this Father and Son duo learn my name after my first cut, but they really seemed to care about me. They took their time, made a polite amount of small-talk, and recognized the American male's occasional desire to just not talk. (That's very important.) I once treated myself to a "shave and a haircut" with them, and they did the whole routine: hot towels, warm shaving cream, and a straight razor freshly sharpened on a leather strap. I loved it. And they finished it off with an electric back massager. I think I got many more haircuts than usual over those couple of years. But it was not meant to be. Corey and I soon moved out to Berkeley, CA and my search began again.
• Corey and I scouted around for a couple of years and finally settled on a nice little salon near our apartment in Berkeley. The owner's name was Daisy, and she was very nice, very reasonable (cheap) and did a decent job. But . . . well, no sparks. No horsehair brush. No shaving capabilities. No electric back massager.
• When I found "Great Lengths" I dared hope I had found my new hair . . . er . . . place. But, alas. Not really. She spent a lot of time, taught me some things about my hair, trimmed up my beard nicely, but . . . well, she fell short otherwise.
Bottom line: gotta keep looking. I'll keep you posted.
• I guess we'd have to start at the beginning. Mom. A set of old fashioned hair clippers. The big black high chair in the basement (or outside on the picnic table in the summer). "Now don't move or I'll gouge ya." Yeah, she used to say that. (Sorry, mom, but I'm bound to the truth here.) I remember the soft brush that was made out of horse hair or something that she would use to dust us off when we were finished. I liked that. But times change and your mom can't cut your hair forever.
• At some point in the growing up process, Dad took us boys to the "Golden Shear". Two old guys in an ugly brick building with a barber pole out front. There were swords hanging on the pegboard walls and styptic pencils for sale at the counter. They did most of their work with the old-fashioned clippers and various lengths and styles of attachments. They had a vacuum cleaner built into the wall, the hose of which they used to dust you off when you were done. Not quite the horsehair duster that mom used. One of their names was Bernard, can't remember the other.
I remember going to them religiously throughout high school, probably every two months or so. And I really wanted to have a relationship with my barber just like they had on the Andy Griffith Show. I wanted to be able to shoot the breeze with them, talk about world events, tell them my problems, listen to their problems, etc. I remember one time, walking out after my post-cut vacuuming and offering my hand in greeting. "My name's Doug," I said. "Bernard," he said, offering his own hand back. "Good to meet you. See you next month."
My hopes were dashed when he didn't remember me the next time. Or the next time. Or the next time. Ah, well. Maybe it takes decades to build up that kind of a rapport with a barber.
• In college, I went through a wide range of barbers, hairstylists, and everything in between, from someone who must have been Bernard's cousin to a slightly over-flamboyant gay man (just because I'm gay doesn't mean I want my barber to be on fire). Anyway, they all fell short of the grail. I was looking for someone special. Someone who made me feel like both a king and a friend. Someone who knew what they were doing, was guided by inspiration, and tempered by a healthy knowledge of what is still considered masculine (I'll never forgive that woman in 6th grade who whipped out a curling iron on me). And someone who remembered my name. But this person was not to be found in Ithaca, NY. The search continued . . .
• During college, I worked over the summer at Neubert Painting (wow, they have a website now!) and so I lived back home in Cleveland with Corey. Down the street from our warehouse on Madison Ave. (among the most bars and pubs per square mile in the United States) was a small, clean, unassuming little barber shop. Most of the guys from work went there, so I gave it a try. I was impressed. Not only did this Father and Son duo learn my name after my first cut, but they really seemed to care about me. They took their time, made a polite amount of small-talk, and recognized the American male's occasional desire to just not talk. (That's very important.) I once treated myself to a "shave and a haircut" with them, and they did the whole routine: hot towels, warm shaving cream, and a straight razor freshly sharpened on a leather strap. I loved it. And they finished it off with an electric back massager. I think I got many more haircuts than usual over those couple of years. But it was not meant to be. Corey and I soon moved out to Berkeley, CA and my search began again.
• Corey and I scouted around for a couple of years and finally settled on a nice little salon near our apartment in Berkeley. The owner's name was Daisy, and she was very nice, very reasonable (cheap) and did a decent job. But . . . well, no sparks. No horsehair brush. No shaving capabilities. No electric back massager.
• When I found "Great Lengths" I dared hope I had found my new hair . . . er . . . place. But, alas. Not really. She spent a lot of time, taught me some things about my hair, trimmed up my beard nicely, but . . . well, she fell short otherwise.
Bottom line: gotta keep looking. I'll keep you posted.
Posted: Sat - November 22, 2003 at 08:26 PM
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Published On: Jan 02, 2005 10:40 PM
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