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I’ve been getting chirped by the huddled masses over my weekend spending habits – too much spent on vodka sodas, the tips I give are too big, I went too hard on a Sunday, I eat breakfast lunch and dinner, I dropped too much at GNC on protein in an effort to get even more yoked than I already am. And the list goes on. All fair points, sure. I mean, don’t tell me how to spend all the money I make, but I get it. You’re intimidated by the big city life. Some of us are wolves out here trying to just live our lives.
But the one place I won’t sit idly by and let you chirp chirp chirp like you’re Spike Lee at a Knicks game is on my haircut spending habits. “$60 for a haircut, what do you do, fucking model or something?!” Everyone just needs to CALM DOWN. When it comes to your barber, you can’t spare a single expense. None.
You see this handsome? It doesn’t just happen. It’s got to be crafted with delicate hands. I suffer from a condition known as, umm, “Jew ‘fro,” (I’m allowed to say that) and if not properly handled, I sport a bird’s nest and look like frickin’ Seth Rogen. But if properly cut, I think I can rock a good head of hair.
I’d never been much of a barber stickler, and back in Boston, I wasn’t dropping any more than $20 (that includes tip) for a haircut. But then I came to NYC, fell ass-backward into an amazing hair-cutting experience, and my life has forever been altered.
I was recommended a barber near my apartment by a buddy, and sight unseen I stumbled in. I waited my turn and when I was in the seat, the relationship with my barber began. He was a true artist; methodical and precise. He listened to what I liked, made recommendations, and after one or two visits I basically just said, “Do with it what you want, my hair is your canvas.” And he’s never, ever, disappointed.
There’s always a wait for my barber. Always. And no matter how many people are behind me waiting to have their hair cut by a true maestro, my barber never rushes. He takes his time, he doesn’t miss any details, and he truly wants every cut to be perfect. I’m up in that chair a solid hour, so it’s not like I’m spending all this money on a twenty minute trim job. Far from it. $24 for the cut, another $20 for a beard trim and hot shave, and then I leave a nice tip. Make it an even $60. Trust me, my barber is worth it.
Do I need the beard work? I mean, I never really sprung for that before, but when I first moved to NYC I wanted my beard looking one hunit emoji for a wedding I was going to, and he did such a good job on my beard that I can’t not have him do it every time I go see him.
My barber remembers his previous cuts. What worked, what didn’t. He remembers details about your life. He’s always up for a chat, but if you’re in the mood to just sit quietly, he’s fine silently crafting a perfect head of hair. He’s proud of his craft, he’s proud of his business, and nothing is more evident than when he’s cutting your hair.
Trust me when I say that once you find a barber who practices the three P’s – patience, passion, precision – hold on to him. Hold the fuck on. Because I think it’s a rare thing in life these days to have unwavering trust in the guy cutting your hair. So when you find it, like true love, you can’t let it go. You simply can’t. Your appearance and self-confidence is just too damn important to leave in the hands of some Edward Scissorhands who’s going to charge you fifteen bucks and have you in and out before an episode of Seinfeld is done.
You want to gamble with your hair? Fine. I’m not telling you that you can’t. But I won’t. I can’t. You can keep paying twenty bingo dingos for your Enzo hair cut, and I’ll keep paying $60 to look like this:
My bad, should have dropped an NSFW disclaimer before dropping that St. Elmo’s fire flames ‘gram all up on ya. .