October 31, 2005

The $5 Haircut

It is said that you can find anything in New York. For the past two weeks I have been on a mission. As my locks got ever longer (some would say mangier), I searched the city in vain for the holy grail of cheap haircuts: the $5 haircut. Unswayed by cheerful Supercuts ads and $2 off coupons online, I kept my ear to the ground, diligently tracking down leads, to no avail. On Friday afternoon, however, a small, hand-lettered sign taped to the wall of my gym caught my eye. Maybe it was the judicious use of green and pink highlighter that I saw; maybe the misspellings and solecisms grabbed me; you can call it whatever you want. I call it fate.

The King Barber school, the ad said, located on 3rd avenue between 9th and 10th streets. "Ask for George. Haircuts $5."

I swaggered through the plate glass doorway, shook the hair from in front of my eyes, and surveyed the scene. Which of the estimable hair stylist herein would I deem worthy of trimming my mane? For a few moments, none stepped forward, and then a single brave soul whom I will dub "Jorge"—due to my not remembering or not having been told his name—looked me in the eye. "What you want?" He asked in a gravelly baritone.

"I'm here for the $5 haircut," I replied, leveling his gaze. With nary another word I was swept into a barber's chair and enrobed in a fetid black cape. Jorge and I negotiated the deals of the haircut (price: $5. length: shorter in the back), and he went to work with, his hair trimmer droning away.

Like many of the upper-class hair salons that charge 2, even 3 times the amount at Kings, the hair stylists there have an apparent moratorium on scissors. No matter. Jorge and his mentor "Sal" (name also apocryphal) deftly showcased the range of the common hair trimmer, using it superbly for both fine detail work and to shear great locks of hair at once.

If I were to make one niggling complaint (and it be a minor one), it would be this: Jorge, with his black comb, seemed to have a personal vendetta against my protruding ears. Time and again he sliced the comb through my hair only to whack it against my gibbous (and not slightly tender) flesh, so much so that I would be unable to contain a pavlovian grimace every time he wielded that shiny plastic weapon.

So how's the haircut? You can judge for yourself. Personally, I feel a little bit too much like a Willard-era Crispin Glover.

Posted October 31, 2005 06:21 PM. Categories: New Experiences , Week 8 | Permalink