I’m so resigned to the cruel realities of male pattern baldness that when my daughter said my hair looked nice, I said, “Which one?”
So normally I lack the impetus — not to mention the hair — to write about my coif But after what happened to me at the Ye Olde Barber Shoppe in Duck, N.C., I feel compelled.
We were on the Outer Banks when I decided I needed a haircut. The decision was based on pure whimsy. I could go the rest of my life and not “need” another haircut.
But I find barber shops are great places to absorb local culture, sports banter and other topics appealing to a sophisticate like me, albeit a sophisticate still on a quest to learn the perfect fart joke.
It was appropriate here because my time at the Ye Olde BSer really stunk.
Had I checked Yelp I would have known this and gone elsewhere. Here’s just one customer review:
This place is awful. The experience was hands down the worst customer service I have ever encountered. The owner/ barber took no less than 7 personal phone calls, while busy, and while cutting hair. He also was very, very pessimistic about everything. Everything was about how shitty everything is. He hated everything. He talked about shaving the eyebrows off of customers he didn’t like. I heard that and said bye-bye. I’d had enough.”
My experience:
Ignoring the “Let’s Go Brandon!” flag in the window, I walked in and took a seat. I was third in line. It was 2:15 pm. I learned the barber’s name was “Coooter.” Five minutes after I sat down, an elderly gentleman came hobbling into the shop. He’d left his walker in the car. I jumped out of my chair and rendered assistance. He took my arm and I led him to a vacant seat. I mistakenly thought my gallantry would earn me some good will.
Like the Yelp reviewer, I sat there as Cooter spewed hatred for everything that could be described with a noun. He hated minorities. He hated government, gays, foreigners, etc. It was all couched in an aw-shucks, good ‘ol boy, I’m-just-tellin’-it-like-it-is banter where everyone’s in on the joke.
When after an hour, it was my turn, he asked a standard ice breaker: “Where you from?” I told him Pittsburgh because it’s not only the truth, I’ve found it to be perfectly safe
In my experience, Pittsburgh and Pittsburghers enjoy a great reputations around the country. Pittsburgh is very neutral. It’s not NYC or, thank God, Boston.
It was the wrong answer. He leaned in so close I could feel his beard tickling my ear lobe. “So you’re not only a Yankee, you’re a damn Yankee.”
I had no idea what that meant, but it sure sounded sinister.
Describing the hair cut as harrowing would be an exaggeration. But I’ve been in dentist chairs where I’ve felt less apprehensive. Let’s call it hairowing
Toward the end of the nearly 45-minute ordeal he put me in a sort of headlock, held me steady and said, “I hope you enjoyed your education.” Then I felt the razor rake the back of my neck. It stung when he slapped on the aftershave.
“Just a little kiss to remember me by.”
He said it was $25. I paid it, happy to leave with both ears still attached. It was 4 p.m. I’d been there an hour and 45 minutes.
Later at the beach, Val noticed my neck had a pinkish hue, one that corresponded to the bloody stain tainting my snazzy beach shirt.
That was Cooter’s “kiss.” The sirt would need dry cleaning.
I’ve always considered myself a man of reason. Not rash or flighty. I think things through and settle firmly on a steadfast position. I’m for the most part a social progressive with an unflappable belief in the goodness of my fellow man/woman/he/she/them/their blahbidy blahbidy blah …
But all it took was one “kiss” from Cooter and I’d become a real redneck.
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