The Salon

For my entire life, I have resisted getting my haircut at a salon.

Until today.

Now, perhaps "resisted" is a strong word. No self-respecting man in North Carolina or Ohio in the 80s would even be TEMPTED by a salon. Ever since my very first haircut, I have been a barber shop man, or in my leanest money years, a cut-it-yourselfer.

Some of my best memories are of haircuts. I sat in the booster seat in the big barber's chair at the Duke University barber shop as a little tow-headed boy--they gave lollipops if you sat still long enough. I remember the thrill of running into my childhood heroes on the way to getting a haircut: several Duke basketball players strolling campus. I still own a copy of "The Yearling"--the only one in the whole world that is signed by Johnny Dawkins.

In Ohio, I was a regular at "Howard's"--so named because it was staffed by two guys called, not coincidentally, Howard: one roundish and taller, clean-shaven; the other shorter and mustached. Haircuts cost $4.75 (or was it $4.25?). It was about the closest thing I ever did to a universal male rite of passage--peddling the bike (eventually driving the car) to Howard's on a Saturday morning, getting there 5 minutes before they opened to save an hour waiting in line. Howard's was the first place I saw a Playboy magazine--Howard kept them on top of the coat rack, and one day a guy plucked one off and sat down next to me, opening it right up for him and me (over his shoulder) to see. I frankly think he did it solely for my 9 year-old benefit.

In college, my hair cuts were from my good friend, Jay. We had a monthly ritual of haircuts, which turned into lengthy conversations. We patented our own hairstyles (the most hideous and laughable we called "the Cat")--all variations on the theme "really short." Junior year I finally took the plunge and shaved my head, which I thought would make me look a bit tougher, and only made me look... well... bald (never again). My conversations with Jay over haircuts became a friendship, which eventually became a business partnership and the founding of our nonprofit organization, Urban Solutions. It all started over haircuts.

New York has been a hair disaster. I've looked for a barber I like here, but I've never found one. I've tried about a dozen places--everything from some Russian guys on 7th Ave. to two different branches of SuperCuts. I've worn my hair longer in New York than I ever have in my life, in part because I can't find anyone I trust to cut it. And so many guys go to salons--which has always been a repulsive concept to me: so pretentious, so obscenely expensive. It's hair, for God's sake. No hair cut is worth the money or the fussiness of a salon.

And yet...

Today, I visited a salon. I paid them to cut my hair... and fuss over it.

It wasn't so bad. Got my hair washed (nice touch). Had great conversation with Harry, my stylist (did I just call him "my stylist"?). At the beginning of my time, he asked me what I do in order to get a sense of what kind of cut I wanted. He laughed heartily when he found out that I am a minister--thought it was great that I am trying to stay "cool" as a man of the cloth. And there was, of course, the inevitable awkwardness of me presuming he was gay and him probably presuming I thought he was a sinner.

But the conversation was rich and warm. Harry has a rich and vibrant spiritual life, which, predictably and sadly, does not include church. I didn't say much about my own views on religion. I never do. I listened and asked enough questions to keep him talking. Harry told me that the primary spiritual truth in the world has to do with detachment. Not a bad conclusion for someone who cuts things off for a living so that the people he helps can start over afresh.

At the end I paid. More than twice what I've ever paid for a haircut in my life. This one will have to last until August. I can't afford Harry.

And the cut? I'll let you be the judge. Tell me what you think...