Desert of the Mind [v1.5 Beta]
[Current Project]Flickrati NYC
Saturday, September 09, 2006 |
My barber is an old italian institution in an old italian neighborhood. His customers are old italian men, and they sit about passing through the afternoon chatting about things in italian, while the italian league soccer match plays in the background.
He cuts my hair slightly crookedly, the sideburns are never level, and half the time he uses old-man aftershave of which I reek all day after he shaves the lower hairline on the neck. The sides are too tight, the cut it too low on the ears, and he insists on styling my hair in the wavy greasy manner of the young italian kids, a style which I intensely dislike. I have given up asking him to taper the back, like a little kid or a military cut, for he never does it anyway, and I overtip him which defeats the purpose of going to him in the first place (he's real cheap). We have very little to no conversation, although he is very friendly, for I do not speak italian and he is half deaf anyhow.
If you're wondering why I continue to get my haircut there, then all I can say is that he's my barber and I'll be going there until he dies or I move away, and that's the end of that.
Maybe it's a guy thing, I don't know.
I'm the same. When I was at college, I went to a tiny barbers up the hill from the campus full of native Aberdonians. Now I get my hair cut by a very grumpy Northern Irish bloke around the corner from my house. You're right, it's a guy thing.Post a Comment