Haircut adventure

I've never really had any experiences I felt were blogworthy until now.

I realized today that I was in need of a haircut. Being new to the area, I consulted the fountain of all truth and knowledge--the internet. Google maps has a feature where if you're looking at a geographical area (in this case, Arlington, where I live), you can find businesses of a certain type. Therefore, keying in the search terms "hair cut", I was drawn into an adventure I had not anticipated in seeking a service so mundane.

Being a thrifty fellow, I avoided all the search results that brought up anything with the word "salon" or that had its own website. I settled on a place called "Lee's Barbershop" on 4109 Mt. Vernon Avenue in Alexandria about a mile or two from my apartment. As soon as I got off work I zoomed on over.

I had never been in this area of Alexandria. Everything I had seen so far was in Old Town, which is quaint and upscale, making you find yourself in an anachronistic mangle of brick pavement, antiquated signs, and designer retail clothes stores and fancy restaurants. This institution was nestled between a Dollar Tree, Pollo and Steak, and Latin Market. I saw many individuals walking the street who looked like they were upscale, but more upscale homeless. Like the kind of beggars who were classy and would say please before beating you with a chain and taking your belongings and thank you afterwards.

I was so convinced that the place labelled "Barber Shop" was not this "Lee's Barbershop" I had researched that I drove almost a quarter of a mile past it before turning around in defeat--"Barber Shop" was my intended destination. I was so distracted looking at the place in disbelief that I almost ran over a motor skooter that was hidden behind a longer car.

Having narrowly avoided a minor accident, and still in a state of disbelief, my desire to exercise my healthy sense of laziness, coupled with my curiosity to discover what unknown treasures might lay inside, drove me inside the "Barber Shop". Even before I stepped in the door, I could see that I was the only white person there. I was in luck, I was in front of the line.

No one looked up when I entered. Four Mexican stylists, 3 female and 1 male, were lopping hair off their brown male customers for some impossibly short shaves. This was all done in a profound silence, with the exception of the TV which was playing Telemundo music videos.

I sat down, wondering whether they would be willing to serve me. I dismissed the thought as ridiculous, then started wondering if they indeed knew HOW to cut the hair of a white person. Just as I was about to evacuate, an older Hispanic lady (40s? tough to tell by her hair and make-up) took a 2 second break from her slashing and said hello to me. I waved back and sat back down.

I watched the lady who had welcomed me. She looked the closest to being done, so I felt impressed that she would be the one to sink her scissors into me. She was cutting the hair of what looked like a 15 year old boy. It looked uneven in the back to me (I've cut my own hair for years--I decided to pay someone this time at my parents encouragement to make sure I look respectable now that I have a job and can "afford it".). But the young man seemed happy with the cut, and the lady did go over the same spot several times to make sure she was cutting everything just right.

My guess was right and without speaking, the lady gestured for me to take a seat. I sat down obediently. She fiddled with some of her equipment, then took time to wrap me in a choke hold with her barber-bib. I felt uncomfortable in the seat, as I could neither slouch nor feel comfortable sitting upright. While the lady labored, I noticed the busty bikini-girl advertising a truck on the reflection of the mirror to the wall behind me.

She finally uttered something which I gathered meant she was ready for instruction. Would this lady understand me? I told her and she went to work.

Every time she cut some hair away, Theresa (I asked her name by the end) smoothed the hair she had just cut. I didn't really get that but whatever, this lady is a professional so I'm sure she knows what she's doing.

She did the steps in an order I was unused to, and I started questioning whether my confidence in her abilities was unfounded. I watched her like a hawk. I don't suppose I figured it was because there was anything I could do to stop her, but more out of horror in how much worse I looked with each cut compared to when I came in. Meanwhile, I thought of the vagrants who were walking around outside and wondered if my iPod and cell phone and GPS would be in the car when I got back. Or the car itself.

A music video came on that was in English. Suddenly I felt like this place wasn't so foreign. I marveled at the nearly intelligible rap lyrics. While I was wondering if the term "going down south" was sexual, Theresa startled me out of my reverie with some broken English. I didn't know what she asked so I intelligently responded, "Huh?" She repeated and I then said, "Uh, yeah" when she waved some instrument I did not recognize at me. It turned out I had agreed to have my hair shaved with a razor around the edges. I didn't know if that was going to cost me extra, but I held my tongue and submitted.

At this point, Theresa got into a very excited conversation with her co-worker, another Mexican lady who looked 10 years or so her senior, who was now hovering uncomfortably close to me. While I wondered what was so interesting and funny I managed to pick up the word "Gringo". I wondered at the story of the "Gringo" and wished I could have known what had happened.

My worst fears were realized as Theresa showed me the back of my hair in the mirror as she waited for my approval at the craftsmanship of the cut. I relented with a "yes" and agreed to pay not so much out of approval but out of release from further damage.

The price was 15 dollars (I wonder what that is in pesos), which was 15 more than I was used to paying. She asked me if I wanted to pay a tip. I was confused--wasn't that usually kind of an unspoken thing? Like, you don't ask for it but it's usually expected? She managed to explain that the machine was broken and that's why she had to ask. I gave her 2 bucks.

As I walked out with my first Mexi-cut, I felt a strange sense of appreciation for the culture, and felt more a part of it now that I had participated in its services. And I couldn't help but wonder if the many uni-sex African American barbershops I had seen would serve me.