It's not every day that I have a razor held against my throat.
Yet there I was, pushed back into an unnatural and indefensible position. I suppose I could have flailed my arms, but what good would it have done? The straightedge wielding man was a professional; he had obviously done this before. I remained calm, and even cracked a smile.
Ben, my Australian friend, was likewise pushed back and had a straightedge working his neckline. We were caught in the midst of a heated argument, but despite the razor scraping my skin I chuckled at the theatrical ludicrousness of the scene. This was fun; neither of us had ever had a hot shave at a barbershop before, and New York City seemed just the place to get it done.
Behind me and out of sight was Stallion. This 30-something specimen dressed himself to the nines, probably even to sleep. His hair was perfect and he wore clothes of the absolute latest trends. This man epitomized what women refer to as "dark handsome features." I could smell the Stallion. Rather, I could smell the cologne and product in which he obviously bathes himself.
The second character was Hitman, a 50-something piece of work who kept his few remaining hairs closely cropped, Bruce Willis style. This man did not speak, he drawled with an Eastern European brogue reminiscent of the last voice someone might hear after having crossed the mob. Hitman still took care of himself though, donning an un-tucked tailored dress shirt loosely hugging a well-nurtured paunch.
Then, there was Surfer. I wondered why he was even here, and not on a beach somewhere. Surfer did not possess a head of hair; his more closely resembled the mane of a lion. His thick, sandy locks were pulled back tight, just one shower away from becoming full-blown dreads. Body piercings, hemp-laced accessories, and skull figurines defined Surfer's personal space.
Finally, there was Dame. The only female of the group, she wore the quiet, knowing, wise look of all women who have spent too much time hanging around guys. Dame spoke the least, and always in a tone that indicated she had better things to do than answer the calls of her male cohorts. Clearly, she was the mediator the others relied upon to settle disputes.
Stallion's hands were a blur, a pair of scissors glinting as he worked on a client of his own. Stallion's mouth went a mile a minute, sounding something like this: "I told you that look wasn't right for you; you want something longer down the sides; see, that's where I come in. You know what you want but trust me, my friend, I know what you want. This is the look for you; come back in two weeks and you'll be asking for the same exact thing." Even as he worked the scissors, Stallion gesticulated profusely, never stopping so much to take a breath.
At that moment Stallion, suddenly enraged, turned toward Hitman: "Hey man, what are you doing by my phone? I swear, you touch my phone with your greasy product fingers I'm gonna cut you..."
Hitman would have none of it: "Yo, how am I supposed to work when I got your trash moving into my space? And who's the one with product? I swear, you light up a cigarette, this whole block's going up with what you dump on yourself."
Surfer chimed in, "That's why I don't use product, man. Seriously, you're killing your hair. The corporations sell you shampoo that kills your hair, then you gotta buy their same products to revitalize it. It's a cycle, man. Just rinse it, be natural."
Not once was there a moment of silence. At one point the conversation took a turn toward the bizarre, so peculiar that I wondered if the characters were speaking in code:
Surfer: "Hey, weekend plans - let's get together at my mom's house and have meatballs."
Stallion didn't even look up: "Since when do you have a house?"
Surfer: "No, not my house - my mom's house."
Hitman: "Yo, why would I want to go have meatballs at your mom's house with you?"
Surfer: "It's ok, man, I know you don't like me; I just want you to know I'm cool with it. We don't have to pretend here; I know you don't like me and it's cool, man." He turned toward Dame, "So are you in?"
Dame: "I have a wedding this weekend. I'm leaving work early to pick out a dress, remember?" She sighed, having grown weary of having to constantly repeat her weekend plans.
A half-hour later Ben and I were finished. We stepped out of the barbershop and met up with my sister who, minutes before, had left in a great hurry. Her eyes were wide as she remarked, "That place was crazy. I had just gotten a facial next door, where everything is happy and therapeutic, then I come here and listen to a bunch of guys fighting - I thought someone was about to get killed."
Ben and I looked at each other, surprised at her take. In his classic Australian drawl Ben remarked, "Nah - there was no problem. That's just how guys talk to each other."
He added, "Well, at least that's how guys in Australia talk; don't your men just sit around and discuss their feelings now?"
- Dan Wegmueller of Monroe writes a column for the Times each Monday. He can be reached at dwegs@tds.net.
Yet there I was, pushed back into an unnatural and indefensible position. I suppose I could have flailed my arms, but what good would it have done? The straightedge wielding man was a professional; he had obviously done this before. I remained calm, and even cracked a smile.
Ben, my Australian friend, was likewise pushed back and had a straightedge working his neckline. We were caught in the midst of a heated argument, but despite the razor scraping my skin I chuckled at the theatrical ludicrousness of the scene. This was fun; neither of us had ever had a hot shave at a barbershop before, and New York City seemed just the place to get it done.
Behind me and out of sight was Stallion. This 30-something specimen dressed himself to the nines, probably even to sleep. His hair was perfect and he wore clothes of the absolute latest trends. This man epitomized what women refer to as "dark handsome features." I could smell the Stallion. Rather, I could smell the cologne and product in which he obviously bathes himself.
The second character was Hitman, a 50-something piece of work who kept his few remaining hairs closely cropped, Bruce Willis style. This man did not speak, he drawled with an Eastern European brogue reminiscent of the last voice someone might hear after having crossed the mob. Hitman still took care of himself though, donning an un-tucked tailored dress shirt loosely hugging a well-nurtured paunch.
Then, there was Surfer. I wondered why he was even here, and not on a beach somewhere. Surfer did not possess a head of hair; his more closely resembled the mane of a lion. His thick, sandy locks were pulled back tight, just one shower away from becoming full-blown dreads. Body piercings, hemp-laced accessories, and skull figurines defined Surfer's personal space.
Finally, there was Dame. The only female of the group, she wore the quiet, knowing, wise look of all women who have spent too much time hanging around guys. Dame spoke the least, and always in a tone that indicated she had better things to do than answer the calls of her male cohorts. Clearly, she was the mediator the others relied upon to settle disputes.
Stallion's hands were a blur, a pair of scissors glinting as he worked on a client of his own. Stallion's mouth went a mile a minute, sounding something like this: "I told you that look wasn't right for you; you want something longer down the sides; see, that's where I come in. You know what you want but trust me, my friend, I know what you want. This is the look for you; come back in two weeks and you'll be asking for the same exact thing." Even as he worked the scissors, Stallion gesticulated profusely, never stopping so much to take a breath.
At that moment Stallion, suddenly enraged, turned toward Hitman: "Hey man, what are you doing by my phone? I swear, you touch my phone with your greasy product fingers I'm gonna cut you..."
Hitman would have none of it: "Yo, how am I supposed to work when I got your trash moving into my space? And who's the one with product? I swear, you light up a cigarette, this whole block's going up with what you dump on yourself."
Surfer chimed in, "That's why I don't use product, man. Seriously, you're killing your hair. The corporations sell you shampoo that kills your hair, then you gotta buy their same products to revitalize it. It's a cycle, man. Just rinse it, be natural."
Not once was there a moment of silence. At one point the conversation took a turn toward the bizarre, so peculiar that I wondered if the characters were speaking in code:
Surfer: "Hey, weekend plans - let's get together at my mom's house and have meatballs."
Stallion didn't even look up: "Since when do you have a house?"
Surfer: "No, not my house - my mom's house."
Hitman: "Yo, why would I want to go have meatballs at your mom's house with you?"
Surfer: "It's ok, man, I know you don't like me; I just want you to know I'm cool with it. We don't have to pretend here; I know you don't like me and it's cool, man." He turned toward Dame, "So are you in?"
Dame: "I have a wedding this weekend. I'm leaving work early to pick out a dress, remember?" She sighed, having grown weary of having to constantly repeat her weekend plans.
A half-hour later Ben and I were finished. We stepped out of the barbershop and met up with my sister who, minutes before, had left in a great hurry. Her eyes were wide as she remarked, "That place was crazy. I had just gotten a facial next door, where everything is happy and therapeutic, then I come here and listen to a bunch of guys fighting - I thought someone was about to get killed."
Ben and I looked at each other, surprised at her take. In his classic Australian drawl Ben remarked, "Nah - there was no problem. That's just how guys talk to each other."
He added, "Well, at least that's how guys in Australia talk; don't your men just sit around and discuss their feelings now?"
- Dan Wegmueller of Monroe writes a column for the Times each Monday. He can be reached at dwegs@tds.net.
