I got a haircut today. I have to admit I was a little nervous. I hadn’t paid someone to cut my hair for almost two years. That little buzzer machine was one of the best investments I ever made. But now my hair is getting long again and it was crying to be tamed.

I thought the most logical course of action was to find the closest barber to my house. So there, just around the block, between the candy shop and the bank, a stone’s throw from the movie theatre, I found a place. It wasn’t a barber. And it wasn’t a salon. A hairdresser? What do you call these places? Anyway, the guy was performing a pedicure when I arrived. After a 10 minute wait and a quick snip-snip, I was satisfied and ready to go. An OK job, but the atmosphere left me unimpressed.

Instead of painting old lady’s feet, I want my man to dedicate his energies to hair. Instead of offering gossip magazines in the waiting room, I want newspapers next to a couple of old chairs. I want my man to smoke a pipe, not sport an earring. That buzzing machine is all well and good, but I want my man to pull a comb out of a jar of mysterious blue-green liquid. Instead of tropical gels and conditioners, I want hot lather and a straight-edge razor blade gliding across the back of my neck. I want a red white and blue spinning barber pole, goddammit.