I Can't Get a Decent Haircut in This Town

There is an element of alchemy to haircutting that I do not understand.  I would never suggest the trade is an unskilled one, on the contrary it is an art upon which a great deal depends when it comes to a professional's clientele.  No matter your station in life, a bad haircut is worn at your spirit's peril and on the other hand a terrific hair cut can open doors and glide the rest of you through them.  I have extensive experience with both these scenarios.

I do not consider myself a particularly difficult client when it comes to hair cuts.  My hair is extremely thick and that very fact has been a consistent if one-sided topic with every haircutter I have ever encountered, from the hyper-permed Thunderdome refugee who saved me from my mullet, to the vicious electric razor-wielding OAC football captain bent on my ritual humiliation.  It may be thick, but all I ever wanted for the last two decades was a number two on the sides and back, and short on top.

There are no shortage of Barbers in Georgetown.  In the radius of a short walk I have half a dozen options when in comes to trimming down an imperceptibly greying blessedly thick head of hair.  The generic cheapskate unisex option is open, but the one next to me is lousy with that particular militant single mom vibe, they remember you and your specific opinions on a wide range of subjects and their quality of work runs in direct correlation to your political compatibility. Not good.



There is a wonderful man across the street who runs a spartan outfit wedged between a diner, and a vacuum repair shop.  A giant poster of a peasant girl from the old country picking grapes with cleavage that could launch a thousand ships at least dresses the far wall along with hot rod calenders that cover most of the chips out of decades old paint and plaster.  The fellow smiles, makes a few off colour but appropriate comments about the weather in the beautifully broken english no one can pull off as charmingly as old Italian men and sets to work humming bits of music that probably comes from Operas.  This would be the most perfect hair cutting place in the entire world, were it not for the fact that the haircuts are horrible.  I find clumps of two inch too long hair for days afterwards and end up doing my own sad hack job that makes me look like an malnourished Okie up for the picking season.  I could even let that slide, but for this gentleman rubs his crotch against my shoulder for the entire duration of my haircut.  I've been to him twice, and I've been subtly molested twice.  His place doesn't look very prosperous, and I sort of feel bad about dodging it, but where I come from, unsolicited sexual man-healing is a deal breaker.

There is a place in our mall staffed by half a dozen retired gentleman who have been rehashing the same argument in some Eastern Block tongue for as long as I've been living here.  You come out of their place looking like a bad Sopranos extra, but after a wash it ends up being a pretty good haircut.  Unfortunately I've been effectively blacklisted, as my son was momentarily possessed by a shrieking demon earlier this year during my hair cut that very quickly cleared the place out.  I can't speak their language, but I know fear when I see it, these guys pegged my one year old as something diabolical, and cross themselves whenever I get within twenty feet of their shop.  Bummer.

My fall back has been this proper little quintessential barber shop in town.  The haircuts are somewhere between good and very good, but never very good.  The atmosphere is good, relaxed, busy, old posters and photos concerning the town, hockey, the longevity of the business cover the walls and evoke a simpler time.  The Barber is something of a celebrity in his own right, being forever voted the town's favourite and counting such luminaries as Mike Holmes and ... Mike Holmes as customers.  He greets everyone as "Neighbor" and works contentedly and appropriately.

but...

His politics are just wonky.  He opens every haircut with a loaded comment about our boys overseas, the untrustworthy nature of the Persian, and the unstoppable wave of crime throughout the GTA thanks to decades old conspiracy laden immigration policies.  He gages your response and will weave the conversation from there between hockey, local issues, personal anecdotes and back to charged nationalist-minded diatribes that back you into a with us or against us corner all the while with a razor blade centimeters from your jugular.  I don't mind politics, and I love jawing with hard liners of any persuasion, but in the prone position I'm never 100% certain I'm safe with this fellow, and there are too many places around here to dump a body with half a haircut where no one would ever find it.

I'm thinking of growing my hair out, but I always look like such an idiot...