So, I’m attending a wedding in Tahoe this weekend and making my final preparations for the big event, which include a visit to the barbershop for a quick trim. The trip was the source of some anxiety, because after rocking the bald dome for the past seven years, I recently decided to embark on the quixotic mission for the perfect ‘fro, no matter how long it takes.
This decision has sent me on a thankless quest for a “good, reliable” barber. Since I’m growing my hair out, it shouldn’t be too difficult to find an acceptable choice, seeing as all I require is that he clean up the hairline every few weeks – none off the top, mind you. Alas, victory is elusive.
With that in mind, I ventured over to The Fillmore to check out a new place and get cleaned up for the nuptials. After a half-an-hour wait (not bad for a Thursday evening), I was called on by one of the twentysomething barbers and happily settled into the chair. He said he would just be a minute and disappeared into the back room where he remained for about 15. Upon his reemergence, he yapped on his cell phone for another ten minutes or so, periodically telling me he’d be “just one more second”.
He then went outside to engage in a pathetically obvious drug buy. Very sloppy. I’m not objecting, but at least keep it clean, boys. A little discretion is warranted here. So, my man gets the goods, tells me to “hold on for one more minute” and heads into the back room to blaze. He returns in a cloud and finally gets down to business after another (blissfully) brief phone call.
At this point, I’ve been in the chair around 40 minutes and the shop is about ready to close. Still, I’m cautiously optimistic. I figure the kid just got his puff on, he’s in the zone and he’ll take his time to do it up lovely. So, I tell him, “I just want you to line it up. I’m growing my hair out, so don’t take anything off the top, just edge it up and make it clean.” Pretty straightforward.
Who abandons me.
When the bushwhacking is finished and I’m presented with the mirror, its apparent the kind bud did not help his creative juices. My budding ’fro is gone – butchered beyond repair. I look like the off-brand version of Ron DeVoe, circa 1987.
This, just a day before I’m reunited with friends I haven’t seen in years. The hack job is so bad, I can’t even play it off like I’m going for the retro look. It’s criminal and I feel like I should be able to file some sort of professional malpractice suit.
Would anyone object to the creation of a governing board for hair stylists - sort of a Supreme Court, Star Chamber-type committee that could banish the worst offenders to the nether regions of the universe? These are the type of improvements in our everyday lives that politicians should be working toward to keep the public some recourse when they’ve been wronged. Instead, it’s off to find a hat store. Anyone know of one on the road up to Tahoe?
