Here I am. Nary a hair out of place under the birthday hat. Even then, I was conscious about how my hair looked. Well, actually, my mother was. But this has carried over into my adult life. Yesterday, I got my hair cut. Excuse me, I meant "styled." I go to one of those ultra chic hair salons in West Hollywood. The lady who does me also lists Felicity Huffman, Michelle Pfeiffer, and Goldie Hawn as clients. I don't think she specifcally lists me on her bio. Nevertheless, the place was recently featured on "America's Top Model." You frequently see a celebrity in the chair next to you. Trying to remain inconspicuous but still hoping you notice.
A far cry from my earlier days in the world of haircutting. When my dad would take me to John the Barber on White Plains Road and 225st Street in the Bronx. The sign in the window said it all.
"Italian Spoken Here."
I always wondered. How would somebody who spoke only Italian be able to read a sign in English? How likely would it be that an Italian could read English but not speak it? And why were my father and I even going there?
In those days, families passed down doctors, dentists, butchers, and barbers. You went to the same store because your third cousin twice removed did. It was truly a family business on both sides of the counter. I once asked my dad why we always went to John the Barber.
"Because Grandpa does."
Oh.
This is not to say that the haircutting procedure was an easy one for me. My first few visits were screams. Literally. As soon as the first click was sounded, I was convinced that parts of my left ear would be dropping on the floor in bloody clumps. It didn't help that he seated me on a high chair shaped like a fire engine and that there were pictures of clowns all about. Nope, there was this guy coming at me with a shiny weapon and he barely spoke English. This is not a comfort zone for a five-year-old. I also was deftly afraid of sneezing mid-cut. The head would jerk back, John would be caught off-guard, and my eyeball is on the end of his scissors like a crudit at your last catered New Year's Eve party.
As I got older, I was able to make the trip to the barber by myself. Hop on the 41 bus and remember to get off at the right street. Eventually, the fire engine high chair wasn't needed. I was even offered a comic book to pass the time between snips. And John the Barber would always try to engage me in a dialogue.
"How's the ooopa doopa and the appa dappa and everything in between?"
Huh. The chat was always one-sided. The man made no sense to me. I tried to focus hard on Archie, Veronica, and Jughead.
Unfortunately, the finishing
touch for every haircut was the actual dispensing of "product" onto my head. It was this glop pictured on the right. It had the ability to turn your hair into a plastic toy. And your coiffure wouldn't move for at least two weeks. You could stand on Michigan Avenue in Chicago during the dead of winter and not have a strand go out of place.
To make matters worse, my mother bought into this stuff big time, as if she owned stock in the company. Whenever I went to the barber, I carried the empty bottle which John willingly refilled with this swill. My mother even had her own name for this variation of cement.
"Guck."
And she layered it onto my dome like a mason building a brick shithouse. I became an oddity to my friends who loved to touch the hard rock that was now my hairdo. Several got paper cuts from the jagged split ends. I endured this for several years until I got a reprieve. I was finally allowed more control over my own hair. Why?
John the Barber had dropped dead.
This became a "who moved my cheese" moment for my family's male units, who now found themselves "barberless."
Now, there happened to be a barber shop conveniently around the corner from our house. He was Pat the Barber, but there was a mystery afoot. My mother nixed any thought of him snipping my locks.
"We don't like him."
Oh.
I never knew why. I wound up seeing a barber several blocks away. Another Italian but with less broken English. Louie the Barber. This was at last my choice. When I first entered into Louie's shop, I felt like I had walked into a time warp.
"How's the ooopa doopa and the appa dappa and everything in between?"
Are you fucking kidding me? What is this?? Something they teach you when you go to barber school in Abruzzi, Italy?
Louie got me through the high school years until I discovered that it made a difference if you went to an actual stylist who might even shampoo you in the process.
And I don't scream anymore. I don't want to disturb Goldie.
Dinner last night: Turkey burger at Pig N'Whistle.
2 comments:
Len,
Your hair most certainly was something to behold or is that Behold. Most of the guys in the neighborhood we grew up in went to Pat the Barber. He was hip to the latest hairstyles. Our family were Louie's customers because he/we were Italian. Mom would take the three of us boys there and tell him in Italian how she liked our hair done. He had Jervis but didn't apply the gusto your guy did. Never heard the expression "ooopa doopa and the appa dappa."
15thavebud
My brother and I went to Bill the barber on East 163rd Street in the Bronx. He was a pipe-smoking Cuban immigrant, short and pudgy, quite nice. For me, his shop was one of the early locales in the world of men. Only male customers and the reading material proved it. This was probably the first time I ever saw Playboy. It was not available at St. Angela's grammar school. The nuns would not have approved.
For some reason, Bill had an aquarium. He kept combs in that blue chemical, a disinfectant I guess.
No celebs at Bill's but a nice New York vibe, a piece of childhood. Out here in L.A. I might be at a shampoo sink next to Kelsey Grammer or in the chair next to Gregg Kinnear, but the neighborhood vibe doesn't exist. We're all too wrapped up in being cool and blase.
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