Haircutting My Losses

Finding the right person behind the chair can be punishing

Getting a haircut is like hitting a reset button. You leave the house and by the time you get back, the scraggly mess you’ve been seeing in the mirror lately is gone, replaced by the old you.

When I was little, my mom would take me to Nitti’s, a barbershop that was very close to my great aunt and uncle’s house, so I’d get to see them too. It was always a great day, in no small part due to the fact that Mr. Nitti gave out Dum-Dums lollipops, and he’d always slide you an extra one if you were good.

Looking back at some of my childhood photos, I’m not sure I should have been so psyched about visiting Mr. Nitti. I wasn’t aware of what a fan of Dorothy Hamill he must have been.

I long for the days when I was blissfully ignorant about what a dweeb I looked like.

Tress passing

Now, I know exactly what kind of a dweeb I look like. Or at least the kind I’m capable of looking like in the wrong hands.

Finding someone who cuts your hair exactly the way you like it can be a frustrating, lengthy process. So, when I do happen upon such a person, I’m loyal.

As an adult, my first long-term hair relationship came as the result of a visit to a comedy club. They were doing some kind of faux-game show and I got plucked from the audience to participate. The only thing I remember is that I got more laughs than the comedian and it unnerved him. I won a gift certificate to a salon.

That’s where I met Deb. She was cool and did a terrific job. So, whereas I’d always been a barber kind of guy, I now had a stylist. I was really moving up in the world.

After a couple years, Deb left the salon and saw clients in her house, which was so far away that I needed another haircut by the time I got home. Still, though it was incredibly inconvenient, I stuck with Deb for another two years until I couldn’t hack devoting two hours for a 15-minute trim anymore.

I then began the hunt for someone new. The thing about this kind of search is that when trial leads to error, it’s written all over your head. A bad haircut is the black eye of the scalp. You can try to mask it, but it’s clear that something bad happened to you.

I tried a salon near my apartment, and I walked out of there looking like I’d been roofied and attacked by a lawn trimmer. It was the second-worst haircut of my life. It held the first-place position for years, but was ultimately supplanted by the one I gave myself during the pandemic.

After many more missteps, I finally found what would be my best, and most exasperating, long-term, hair-centric relationship.

My mane man

I went to Joe for nearly 15 years, and I’m sure he didn’t know my name. He never asked.

Joe worked in a barbershop that had been around for over 60 years. There were photos on the wall of the shop in days gone by, but looking around, you’d swear exactly no days had gone by. That was one of the things I loved about it. That, and it was a bargain. And let’s face it, as glitzy and alluring as it was, I was a mere pretender in the glamorous, fast-paced salon world.

There were four chairs, so my landing in Joe’s that first time was mere happenstance. He was probably in his late fifties then, and had mostly white, wavy hair and a thin, white mustache. He was super friendly.

It was impossible not to like him. It was also impossible not to become irritated with him.

You see, as good he was at cutting hair, Joe was even better at talking. And he rarely did both at the same time.

I learned all about his life. He’d tell me stories about growing up in west Philadelphia. He’d tell me stories about his time in the Navy.

He’d tell me about arguments he’d get in over what sounded to me like petty issues, like getting the wrong change, or someone’s bad parking job. That was when I discovered that there was a Light Joe and a Dark Joe. His whole demeanor would change during these accounts, as if he were reliving them.

Light Joe would tell me about the amazing candy store that made their own chocolate delicacies, where he’d buy Christmas gifts for his friends and family. Then he’d specify, in detail, who was getting what, as if he were about to dispatch me to deliver them.

We had this debriefing every year.

“Sounds great,” I’d say, to no acknowledgement.

I didn’t mind the soliloquies. It was the work-stoppage that occurred during them. Joe was a gesturer. When he told a story, he’d move his hands around like he was choreographed by Bob Fosse. It was miraculous that he never stabbed me in the ear.

The result, of course, is that what should have been a 15-minute job took up to an hour. If I had somewhere to be, I’d sit there, trying to maintain my composure while scream-thinking, “Will you shut the fuck up and start cutting!”

Sometimes Light Joe brought out Dark Chris.

He’d also tell me about things he’d do with his friend who lived with him. That’s how Joe referred to him, nameless and never just “friend” or “roommate”; always “My friend who lives with me.”

After a while, it became obvious that this person was more than his friend. That made me sad because, as much of an open book as he was otherwise, he felt the need to be guarded about this area of his life.

I wondered if he was like that everywhere, or just in the shop. Again, this place was frozen in 1950. At least one of the guys looked like he’d been there since day one. Joe may not have felt comfortable sharing that side of himself there. Especially in front of Phil.

Stranded

Phil was the owner; he’d inherited the shop from his father. He and Joe didn’t like each other.

Joe thought Phil was humorless and cheap—he told me this more than once, making no effort to lower his voice to prevent Phil from hearing. Phil brought out Dark Joe.

Besides being insulted by him, I wasn’t sure what Phil’s problem with Joe was, but I suspected he thought Joe was too chatty, causing low turnover.

My theory began to fall apart the day I showed up just as another customer sat in Joe’s chair. I knew I was in for a wait, so I thought it would be entertaining to watch this guy’s reaction as he got his ears intermittently lowered and talked off.

Joe didn’t say a blessed word to him the entire time.

This didn’t make sense. I was concerned there might be something wrong, that maybe someone had died.

In virtually no time, the guy got up, and Joe brushed off the chair and waved me over.

It was close to ten minutes before a single hair on my head was snipped, as he rhapsodized about the meal he’d had the night before. It was steak and a baked potato, so naturally, he needed to tell me about it.

“What is happening?” I thought. “Is it possible that I’m the only one he does this to?”

I’d come to find out that I wasn’t. Of all the times I arrived when he was working on another customer, I saw Joe talk to just one other person. For whatever reason, we were The Chosen Two.

Then, one fall day, I walked into the shop, my eyes trained on the far-left corner where Joe’s chair was, but I didn’t see him. I figured he was probably in the back.

“Hey Phil, is Joe here?” I asked.

“Joe doesn’t work here anymore,” he said, barely glancing up from the head he was tending to.

Phil and I didn’t really know each other, but he knew I was a longtime customer of Joe’s, so he elaborated.

“He stormed out last week.”

I had so many questions that I knew he wouldn’t answer.

“Oh,” I said. “Okay. Thanks.”

Stepping outside in a bit of a daze, I started to walk away before realizing I still needed a haircut. I turned around and went back in.

“I was wondering where you were going,” Phil said. “Mike can take care of you.”

I sat in Mike’s chair, feeling a little dirty. But this wasn’t my fault—it was Dark Joe’s. He’s the one who quit in the spur of the moment, undoubtedly due to something Phil said or did.

All I knew about Mike was that he was from Italy, he wasn’t much of talker, and he’d worked there for decades, so he surely knew what he was doing. While I’d miss Joe, I could feasibly switch over to Mike and not have to begin the interminable search for a new person. I’d also get out of there a lot faster.

“Okay,” I thought. “There could be a silver lining here.”

As Mike worked, I was preoccupied thinking about the confrontation between Joe and Phil, trying to imagine what had gone down that would have made Joe snap.

I was brought out of it when Mike finished up and told me to look in the mirror.

It was the third-worst haircut of my life.