Haircut of the Dog

Last summer, shortly after my 40th birthday, I finally, on a whim, stopped by the barbershop up the block and got it all lopped off. I’d had enough of pulling it out of my mouth in the middle of the night. I’d also had enough of the Allman Brothers cracks.

Thing was, though, now that it was short again, I’d have to keep it that way. I used to go to the barber shop once a year, maybe once every 18 months, and each time I did it was a big fucking ordeal. Now I had to go back again and again and again every few weeks. But in that, I suppose, it’s becoming less of an ordeal. Funny how repetition kills the pain.

I’ve been going to this barber shop on 7th Ave. for the past 12 or 13 years, mostly because it’s so close. Prior to that, I’d gone to a little place across the street, which was even closer. That first place was run by a bald, half-retarded Greek man who spoke no English and always left me bleeding. He was a miserable barber. Apart from its proximity, I think I mostly went there because I felt bad for him. I must admit I was kind of relieved when it closed down. This new place is much better, and I’ve never left there bleeding.

Calling it “new” isn’t exactly accurate. I’m told it’s been there for generations, which is a rarity along 7th Ave. these days. And for all the changes on the street around it, the family who ran it never felt compelled to modernize it in any way. It still has a classic barber shop feel and smell about it. Even the music they play—classic jazz, ’50s rock’n’roll and Sinatra—lots of Sinatra—tells you when you walk through the door that you’re taking a step backward.

Given the eyes, I have a hard time telling the brothers who now work there apart, but they’ve come to know me. When the hair was ridiculously long, I had to put up with the good-natured jibes and ribbings (especially when I only wanted an inch or two removed). They still recognize me, but now as the guy who finally came to his senses and got all his hair cut off like a normal person.

“How d’ya like the shorter cut?” the barber I’ve come to trust most always asks when I sit down.

“It’s why I’m here again,” I tell him. “It’s getting way too long.”

“Yeah, don’t it drive you nuts when you can feel it on your neck?”

I watched as he scanned the shelf full of scissors, combs and razors. When the first thing to come out is the electric clippers, I know I’ll leave with my blood still inside me.

There is another thing I like about this barbershop. After he was done, and he’d brushed me off, and we went to the old cash register in the back so I could pay, he pointed at the bar.

“May I offer you a little something?” he asked. “Or is it too early?”

I looked at my watch again. “Well,” I concluded, “It’s almost ten. Two digits in 10...I think I would like one, yes, thank you.”

They have everything back there, in an open bar they set up every year around Thanksgiving. Sometimes I’ve wondered if they do that to help dull the minds of customers who aren’t happy with their haircuts, but to be honest I’ve never heard anyone complain in there.,

I spied the Jack Daniels bottle, which he grabbed. He poured a small shot and handed it to me.

“Here’s best wishes for health and happiness in the year to come,” he said as he offered it to me.

“And back at you,” I told him before tossing it back. I tend to avoid the whiskey these days on account of what it does to me, but that morning, with a new haircut, the burn felt good. Besides, it was chilly outside. n