" i hate the barber "

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when i was a little kid and up until i was about 13/14, my dad cut my hair. there were no 'if's' 'and's' or 'but's' about it. if he was ready to give my a cut, i was invited to sit down in the "haircut chair." we would break out the chair and set it up in the backyard amidst the fruit trees.

now this chair you see, is still in my basement. everyone that has received a haircut from my dad has sat in this chair. it's cool in the way romper room was cool; sorta FOB-ish, got this foldy-top thingie which sometimes doubles for a footstool of 4.5 feet although we never used it as one, and it's got some 70's-ish orange gradient pattern on the seat, so that's rad.

you would sit down in your undies, no matter the weather status, and he would wrap this barber's dark-blue acrylic sheet around your neck, clipping it with an old wooden clothes-pin. then he would look at you. like really look at you, but in the non-eye-contact way where it was like he could see right through you; see every fault, every detail, everything was laid out for him to study like empty seashells at the beach - exposed and vulnerable.

he would then break out this comb and go at it on your head, scraping and weaving the metal-toothed piece over the moppy landscape of your head. then after a minute, he would give a huff and pick up the clippers, flick a switch, and went to work. my dad doesn't talk much in general, so when he gets into a train of thought, it's usually very instructional, sharing, and educational. it makes it so his silences are powerful, and his discussions are all very passionate, although we were mostly quiet throughout the haircutting time .

the cuts were ritualistic and i knew the steps to follow every time. i knew when to shift the weight of my head, when to lift up my chin or tilt at a specific angle. anything to make it easier and faster. he had this technique of placing his ring finger on the back of my ear while pushing it forwards gently, in order to cut a clean line around the valley above the ear; the vibrations reverberating throughout, tickling those three inner ear-bones something fierce.

and even though i had no clue of this man's ability to cut hair, his training, his background in such activities, i never once doubted him. he was steady-handed and assured in his talent. everytime i was a bother, or cold due to freezing bay area winter weather (which is cold when you're wearing tighty-whities and 7), he would start to tell me about something just to keep me interested at staring ahead at the knotholes in the decrepit fence lining our backyard.

in fact, i was really good at remaining quiet, which may seem like a passive quality, but it gave me time to really focus my thoughts on what i was going to do after the time was over. it seemed in those moments of space, while trying to not be accidentally nicked, that i would let my imagination wander on and on. i had a lot of time to study the shape of my feet for example. besides the usual boredom of such an activity, it was a usually a very freeing experience.

we would connect in a very real way, through this activity; the only noise was nature surrounding us, the scissors snipping at times, and the low monotonous buzzing of the clippers. there was something deeply fulfilling about the whole thing, although i never really liked any of the expert cuts he gave me.

they were the sort of cuts that my mom liked, and that was enough for him to stop. my mom would come down the stairs with something cool to drink when it was hot, and something hot to drink when it was cooler; the fallen autumn leaves the perfect excuse to come outside and snoop.

she would occasionally come down just to check the progress, or yell through the window of our kitchen. my dad would always say, "don't worry, you're next." and she was. he cut everyone's hair that came through the house. my brother, some cousins, anyone that wanted a cut. i wouldn't call him a superhero or anything descriptive like that, but i was impressed.

after the cut was done, he had a "closing down the shop" ritual as well. everything had a step and a place. he would first take a final look at me; walking all around and grunting lowly at certain passes. then he would give me the a-okay. out of the barber-toolbox, he would fish out this huge brush.

i always believed it to be the sort of brush that oversized pirates would scrub decks with, or stable workers would clean off shaggy racehorses with. it was thick-bristled and hurt like hell when he took that sucker to my neck. i've had cuts in seawater that have hurt less. i also believe this is why the skin on the back of my neck is still so sensitive.

he would then remove the sheet and shake it out while i put the chair away, and came back to sweep up the shorn hair clippings. i always took a shower afterwards, which always gave me a great opportunity to see the job he did. my reaction was always the same though; a good clean feeling with the hand, and a slight disappointment with the shape. it was okay though. every time he saw my displeasure, he would remind me that it was free, and we had saved some money. how could i argue; i was a kid with a tiny allowence.

since my mid-teens, i began to cut my own hair. to this day i still do...when i have the opportunity too. it's very easy once you've done it about 30-45 times, using skillfully placed newspaper and a series of mirrors placed just so. my dad still gives me disapproving looks on my cuts sometimes, but he understands. we've built up a strong relationship through the silences and the pure necessity of the past activity, and for some reason, that's really powerful.

in fact, at times i have begun cutting his hair on his request. and if you know thai culture, touching the head of someone older than you is usually disrespectful and is done only at appropriate times. to allow me to cut his hair breaks my heart in all the right ways. and i find myself really good at it too. one of those cycle-life-thingies coming back around.

which brings me to the main point of this nostalgic journey: i hate the barber.

although hate is a very harsh and powerful word, i use it here to describe the barber; not personally, just the act of. i hate the setting. i don't know the people. i don't think they care for my very detailed instructions, and i know they're gonna hate my crappy tips. i've gone to an 'official barber' about 7 times in my life now, and i have hated each and every experience. since i find myself now in thailand, and have no clippers or a place to plug in said clippers, or a spot to cut my own hair with respect to the place where i'm living, i have had to give in a little bit.

but it doesn't mean i like it any more now that it's a lot cheaper, and includes a free neck massage and a shave with a straight razor. meaning, those extra perks just sorta kick ass, but it's still sort of a spectacle. i mean, what if dude masses up the do? how can you tell him off before he's about to give you a shave? it's just not right, and i rarely enjoy the time i spend sitting in a chair (albeit confy as all hell) waiting for some grumpy barber to wreak havoc on my headspace. it's just sort of an uncofortable position is all.

so, down with the barber for me. nothing can replace years and years of the best hair-cutter i know, or the DIY-ness of cutting my own moppy mop, and i do believe that nothing ever will. my dad can no longer kick your dad's ass, but i bet he could cut your dad's hair really swell, um, that is if you can fit in the chair.

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