The blindfold is ripped away with a snap. Behind me, unseen, a technician turns a valve. A slight squeak ensues but the water, finally, blessedly, slows to a trickle. I can breathe again. I won’t die today, flashes through my mind. The last of the restraints are released and the platform I’m stretched across elevates and I step off.
At this point half of you are considering that I might have been kidnapped by terrorists (or the CIA, as they’re both pretty much the same). The other half are going Whoa! BDSM much?
But both halves would be incorrect. Instead of undergoing an enhanced interrogation technique, I have merely completed the first process in my monthly ritual of self-indulgence: getting a haircut.
I will wait for those of you who were in mid-sip when you read that to clean up the coffee.
I must rewind here and recount my relationship with haircuts, particularly given I grew up during that time of American history when males not getting haircuts became borderline acceptable. I quickly learned that I was one of the few people who looked worse with long hair; mine was truly unruly once it hit two inches. I couldn’t tolerate it so never let it get to five. I was, and remain, stridently opposed to maintenance, particularly when it comes to personal appearance. Once I quit work, in fact, I stopped combing my hair completely and it was free to do as it would. And it still does.
However, this level of laissez faire does have limit and mine is two inches.
Which has led me to some great stories about haircuts. There was the back-alley taxi ride in Puerto La Cruz, Venezuela to a building that looked like it had just been relocated – intact – from Beruit. The shop had antique chrome and leather barber chairs where, for the equivalent of US$3.00 I got an amazing razor cut – probably the best haircut of my life.
But the most memorable cut I got was at a mob barber in Great Neck, Long Island, New York.
You have all seen some mob movies. I assure you those scenes – no matter how unbelievable – are accurate down to the tablecloths. I grew up in a mob neighborhood. Many of my childhood friends had grandfathers with nicknames like Three Fingers, Sticky Vince, or Blinky. They all had files on them in the FBI’s New York office. And most had served hard time. My backdoor neighbor – who occupied his daylight hours by jogging – was whacked coming out of a Brooklyn bar in the middle of the night. There was even a Christmas Eve gunfight a few blocks over.
A real family-friendly environment. Especially if you were in the family.
So, having grown up amongst them, I knew my way around.
While sailing back to Virginia from Rhode Island the last year of my cruising life, I stopped in Great Neck for a few days. I realized that I needed a haircut, so I took the dinghy to shore and started looking around. Strolling through downtown, I glanced down a side-street and saw a sign that said “Barber” complete with the little red, white, and blue barber pole by the door. The pole’s triple helix pattern was in motion signifying the store was open. I turned down that side street.
Opening the door triggered a little jingle-bell sound by smacking into a spring that made the bells move. Life was simpler back then. Two guys were sitting around and turned their heads toward the door. They looked at me like I had just landed from Mars.
“How you doin’?” I opened, trying to give myself some cred. “I need a haircut.”
A worried glance flashed between the two.
“How’d you find us?” The older one asked.
I struck a pose and pointed to the sign and the barber pole like I was Vanna White about to reveal the last vowel.
“You have a sign.”
The main guy shrugged and tossed the racing sheet he’d been reading on the counter.
He whipped out the big apron, snapped it in the air to get it to unfold, and pointed at the chair.
“Have a seat.”
I figured this could go two ways – either one of which would make a great story – so I sat down.
What followed was a masterful haircut. But it was a mob haircut. Quick and precise and just like in the movies. I even got the hot shaving cream when he cleaned up the back of my neck.
I paid and left the shop knowing full well, that the next time the local capo came in, there would be a conversation that began:
“You shoulda been here. This cop dressed like a tourist came in and asked for a haircut.”
But, for most of my recent life, I would cut my own hair. Living on a boat where, frequently, the closest land in front of the boat was Africa, barbers are not particularly common. And barbers who can cut White People Hair are even rarer. So, I got a clipper set and would hang off the stern of the boat and snip. The refreshing trade winds would carry the clippings away while the “See How People Who Can’t Afford This Tour Live” tour boats would idle by and allow the Vacation Class to memorialize their trip through the anchorage. I must be on hundreds of vacation videos.
“Look, Marge. This poor man has to cut his own hair.”
“No, Marge. I don’t know if he has any clothes. They were all like this.”
Upon resettling on the US West Coast, where there are lots of barbers, the practice continued. My logic here, framed by the economics of the US, was that I can pay US$25 for a shitty haircut, OR, I can drive to Costco, get a $25 haircut kit, and give myself all the shitty haircuts I want.
Then came Thailand.
If you’ve been here for a while you know how fond I am of Thailand and you’ve read my ceaseless dronings-on about how cheap everything is. Well… while that assessment is mostly true it misses one key point: everything is not only cheap but mostly it’s also very good. Of course, there are some serious misses. But, by and large, the only thing that changes as you spend more is the experience, not the food or service.
Which brings me back to my haircut.
I can easily get, as I did in Venezuela, a $3.00 haircut here. I could also get, as at my mob barber in New York, a $20 cut. Or thirty or forty. Or fifteen. But the end results of all those spendier options would be indistinguishable. The experiences, however, would all be different. A $30 or $40 haircut would be at a shop in a mall or fancy hotel. The lower-priced ones you will find on the street. But you can easily make up the difference in price if you increase the services ancillary to the clippers.
Which is how I end up spending $45 every five weeks for a fifteen-dollar trim.
And, pursuant to the title of this post, that is luxurious, indeed.
I am welcomed into the shop with a bottle of chilled water, a cool facecloth, and an orchid presented on a small wooden tray. Almost immediately I am escorted back to what is called a shampoo but is really a ten-minute head and neck massage involving soap and conditioner. Then it’s into a barber chair for a quick snip. The barber chair reclines and my face gets massaged with a variety of cold and hot salves, unguents, and lotions most of which I have no clue about but all of which smell amazing. The last of these products is left on my face – while a near-silent machine pumps mist to keep everything moist– and a shave ensues. Now smooth as a baby’s butt, I am assaulted by yet more gels, liquids, and pastes followed by the application of a face mask which feels like it had been kept in with the dry ice. The mask remains in place for fifteen minutes or so while my face thaws and the technician gives me a shoulder and arm massage to pass the time. Finally, I am cleaned up, sat up, and guided back for another “shampoo” which is followed by a stylist drying my hair, asking if I want “tonic” and gel (“just a little bit” she says ritualistically). Of course, I say yes because both involve another head massage.
At last, feeling shiny as a new penny, I am escorted to the front and I am waied back into a world that seems just so much brighter and nicer than the one I left a mere ninety minutes earlier.Luxury, as a daily diet, can become overly sweet and cloying. But, as a once-a-month treat? Bring it on. Luxury’s lap is a great place to sit for an hour or so.
