I was out running errands and needed a haircut. I didn't want to go to Great Clips even though they were shamelessly advertising a $5 haircut. I could give the homeless guy standing by the freeway five bucks and a pair of garden shears and he'd end up doing a better job than those beauty school flunks down the street.
My requirements for the task were simple:
1. Find a non-corporate barber in order to support a local business.
2. Find a barber whose primary language was English in order to support local linguistics.
In terms of local haircutting venues Vancouver, WA is far from Beverly Hills, leaning more towards The Hills Have Eyes end of the spectrum. I pulled into an antiquated strip mall that consisted of; a boutique that exclusively sold children's clothing made of "denim and frills", a dog-cleaning shoppe, the office of a highly questionable CPA by the name of Milton, a payday loan company, a smoke shop with enough bars on the windows to give me flashbacks of Compton, and the crown jewel of the strip mall...and my destination: Hair Habitat.
The moment I crossed the threshold of the establishment, a synapse fired in the primitive "fight or flight" portion of my brain. But it was too late; I had already made eye contact with the owner, and being the only other person in the room I was now forced to commit to this. The owner was walrus-shaped and wore a faded Hawaiian shirt that had certainly been to Margaritaville on more than one occasion. He had sloppy salt-and-pepper hair with a jet black mustache that could only be found in certain gentleman’s clubs on the outskirts of Trenton, NJ. He was seated in the closest barber chair ironically reading an issue of Mens Health. As I stood transfixed in his lobby, he slowly lowered his magazine and sighed just loud enough, as if his internal monologue was murmuring, "Can't I get one minute to myself without some asshole coming through the door?" even though we both knew I was the only customer he'd seen in at least two days. While not caring about how my day was going, he strolled over to me and asked how my day was going.
As we engaged mindless chit-chat I allowed my eyes to fully take in my surroundings. I made my way across heavily stained, olive colored carpet that had been infused with heavy doses of indoor cigarette smoke for at least two decades until it was rendered illegal. The carpet led to matching olive hued linoleum upon which sat a row of barber chairs that looked like they had originally been intended for use in waterboarding, but had later been modified to accommodate a haircut. The chairs were large, in terms of girth, and were covered in brown vinyl which over the years had been patched up with roughly the same color of brown duct tape. Unlike modern barber chairs which have some sort of foot-bar to raise/lower the chair, these had comically large slot-machine style handles on the side. I took a seat and he jerked on that handle with such gusto, I thought I might be ejected into the ceiling.
He opened a creaky drawer and pulled out a mustard colored cape, slung it over my torso, and velcroed it around my neck. The cape was so severely tattered and worn it looked like it had met the business end of an uptight wolverine. Thankfully small talk was not his strong suit, so I delightfully continued to soak up the ambiance.
The walls were alternately covered in either orange and yellow wallpaper exactly like you'd see on the set of Three's Company, or the same cheap wood paneling that is abundantly found in most trailer parks. The wall directly across from me contained his prized autograph collection. There were various signed headshots of celebrities such as: Chevy Chase on the set of Fletch, Vanna White before plastic surgery, Tim "The Toolman" Taylor, Chuck Norris as Walker Texas Ranger, one of the adults from Sesame Street, Harry Anderson in his Night Court robe, and the guy who played the son on Married With Children. I would not be surprised if those, one day, fetched a high price on Antiques Roadshow.
To my right was a short wall which contained three full-sized calenders, each interchanged with varying degrees of farm equipment, hot rods, and chicks in bikinis. Why anyone would need tractor calenders AND roadster calenders side by side is beyond me. As I was pondering this, I was suddenly startled and jolted in my seat. He had turned on the electronic hair clippers right by my earlobe and they happened to have same intensity and decibel level as a Sikorsky helicopter upon take-off.
I continued to satiate my visual appetite. Near the entrance was an old Pepsi machine which sold Pepsi, Diet Pepsi, Wild Cherry Pepsi, and Pepsi Free; all with logos that had not been seen on store shelves since the Reagan administration. It had buttons on it the size of masonry and was constructed with reinforced steel that could handily withstand a two-megaton bomb blast. Next to this contraption on the floor was a discolored square patch of carpet where I'm certain a cigarette vending machine once stood.
My eyes begun to peruse the magazine selection. The only reading material on the magazine rack was a Readers Digest (they still make that?), something with Dale Earnhart on the cover, the latest edition of Field and Stream, and a Playboy. I did a double take. Immediately I was reverted back to being eight years old (as seen in the photo). I remember being horrified as a child when I went with my Grandfather to get his haircut and as I was playing with some cheap knock-off Legos, saw several Playboys strewn across the table. I had never seen so many nipples before in my life.
The Walrus had finished my haircut and we were now at the point where most barbers use a blow-dryer to get rid of all the stray hairs that have accumulated on you. He opened hidden cabinet in the wall and pulled out a giant white tube and attached it to a hole in the wall. He flipped a switch and I heard the familiar hum of a Shop-Vac. Like...from Sears. He proceeded to let the industrial hose roam all over my body, properly ensuring no stray clippings remained. Once the probing was complete, I quickly hopped up from the rape chair and handed him my debit card. He stared at me like I was from the future. Cash only. He waited as I went to the neighboring fortified smoke shop, since they had an ATM inside. Conveniently enough it tacked on a surcharge of $4, which turned out to be 1/4 the cost of my actual haircut.
Here's to local businesses.
My requirements for the task were simple:
1. Find a non-corporate barber in order to support a local business.
2. Find a barber whose primary language was English in order to support local linguistics.
In terms of local haircutting venues Vancouver, WA is far from Beverly Hills, leaning more towards The Hills Have Eyes end of the spectrum. I pulled into an antiquated strip mall that consisted of; a boutique that exclusively sold children's clothing made of "denim and frills", a dog-cleaning shoppe, the office of a highly questionable CPA by the name of Milton, a payday loan company, a smoke shop with enough bars on the windows to give me flashbacks of Compton, and the crown jewel of the strip mall...and my destination: Hair Habitat.
The moment I crossed the threshold of the establishment, a synapse fired in the primitive "fight or flight" portion of my brain. But it was too late; I had already made eye contact with the owner, and being the only other person in the room I was now forced to commit to this. The owner was walrus-shaped and wore a faded Hawaiian shirt that had certainly been to Margaritaville on more than one occasion. He had sloppy salt-and-pepper hair with a jet black mustache that could only be found in certain gentleman’s clubs on the outskirts of Trenton, NJ. He was seated in the closest barber chair ironically reading an issue of Mens Health. As I stood transfixed in his lobby, he slowly lowered his magazine and sighed just loud enough, as if his internal monologue was murmuring, "Can't I get one minute to myself without some asshole coming through the door?" even though we both knew I was the only customer he'd seen in at least two days. While not caring about how my day was going, he strolled over to me and asked how my day was going.
As we engaged mindless chit-chat I allowed my eyes to fully take in my surroundings. I made my way across heavily stained, olive colored carpet that had been infused with heavy doses of indoor cigarette smoke for at least two decades until it was rendered illegal. The carpet led to matching olive hued linoleum upon which sat a row of barber chairs that looked like they had originally been intended for use in waterboarding, but had later been modified to accommodate a haircut. The chairs were large, in terms of girth, and were covered in brown vinyl which over the years had been patched up with roughly the same color of brown duct tape. Unlike modern barber chairs which have some sort of foot-bar to raise/lower the chair, these had comically large slot-machine style handles on the side. I took a seat and he jerked on that handle with such gusto, I thought I might be ejected into the ceiling.
He opened a creaky drawer and pulled out a mustard colored cape, slung it over my torso, and velcroed it around my neck. The cape was so severely tattered and worn it looked like it had met the business end of an uptight wolverine. Thankfully small talk was not his strong suit, so I delightfully continued to soak up the ambiance.
The walls were alternately covered in either orange and yellow wallpaper exactly like you'd see on the set of Three's Company, or the same cheap wood paneling that is abundantly found in most trailer parks. The wall directly across from me contained his prized autograph collection. There were various signed headshots of celebrities such as: Chevy Chase on the set of Fletch, Vanna White before plastic surgery, Tim "The Toolman" Taylor, Chuck Norris as Walker Texas Ranger, one of the adults from Sesame Street, Harry Anderson in his Night Court robe, and the guy who played the son on Married With Children. I would not be surprised if those, one day, fetched a high price on Antiques Roadshow.
To my right was a short wall which contained three full-sized calenders, each interchanged with varying degrees of farm equipment, hot rods, and chicks in bikinis. Why anyone would need tractor calenders AND roadster calenders side by side is beyond me. As I was pondering this, I was suddenly startled and jolted in my seat. He had turned on the electronic hair clippers right by my earlobe and they happened to have same intensity and decibel level as a Sikorsky helicopter upon take-off.
I continued to satiate my visual appetite. Near the entrance was an old Pepsi machine which sold Pepsi, Diet Pepsi, Wild Cherry Pepsi, and Pepsi Free; all with logos that had not been seen on store shelves since the Reagan administration. It had buttons on it the size of masonry and was constructed with reinforced steel that could handily withstand a two-megaton bomb blast. Next to this contraption on the floor was a discolored square patch of carpet where I'm certain a cigarette vending machine once stood.
 |
| Tainted Innocence |
The Walrus had finished my haircut and we were now at the point where most barbers use a blow-dryer to get rid of all the stray hairs that have accumulated on you. He opened hidden cabinet in the wall and pulled out a giant white tube and attached it to a hole in the wall. He flipped a switch and I heard the familiar hum of a Shop-Vac. Like...from Sears. He proceeded to let the industrial hose roam all over my body, properly ensuring no stray clippings remained. Once the probing was complete, I quickly hopped up from the rape chair and handed him my debit card. He stared at me like I was from the future. Cash only. He waited as I went to the neighboring fortified smoke shop, since they had an ATM inside. Conveniently enough it tacked on a surcharge of $4, which turned out to be 1/4 the cost of my actual haircut.
Here's to local businesses.
1 comment:
This is hilarious! You are great :)
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