He hates this big-chain, budget haircut place, but he can’t think of anywhere else to go and wouldn’t want to pay any more than fifteen bucks for a haircut anyway. The staff here is young kids. Girls, some of them maybe not out of high school, accessorized with random facial piercings, rooster tails of day-glo hair, and bored expressions. This must be the bottom of the ladder in the haircut game.
He used to get his haircut at a place called Presidio’s, by the train station. A real barber’s kind of place, two chairs, combs in a big vial of blue liquid, a copy of the Daily News on a table by the front window. No waiting. He can’t remember ever talking to the barber, who could have been Presidio, in the seven, eight years he went there. One day he showed up for a haircut and the windows were papered over, a For Sale or Lease sign in the window. Continue reading