After the economic crash and the exile that followed, a decent haircut became a luxury I just couldn't afford. I was resigned to a lifetime of Supercuts, and in Hooterville I counted myself lucky to escape without a mullet.
Even after the move to OC, things were still unsettled enough that paying more than $15 for a haircut seemed decadent. And it just so happened there was a Supercuts around the corner.
It's run by an imposing Persian woman. She speaks slowly in a low, husky voice and definitely gives off the vibe that the salon is really nothing more than a cover for something more nefarious. She employs four other stylists, all Persian, and it's evidently company policy that at any given time, at least three of them are on a break.
The first time I went in it was mid day and empty. All five of them were slumped in their barber chairs slowly munching on snacks and lazily leafing through gossip magazines. It looked like a herd of cows. For several long seconds everyone ignored me. Finally the owner looked up and said "it will be about ten minutes."
OK.
So I sat there for ten minutes watching them all chew their cud and flip their pages. At the ten minute mark, the owner looked at her watch and barked something in Farsi to one of the other stylists who stood up, tossed her magazine to the side and yelled to no one in particular, "NEXT!"
Don's ask me why, but I went back a month later.
This time, the waiting area held about 10 people yet despite the crowd, three of the stylists were "on break" in their chairs. The owner came over to me to take my name and once again said "it will be about ten minutes." I doubted that, but I didn't really feel I had any options, so I took my seat. I could tell immediately that the other people waiting were getting restless and agitated. At one point a waiting mom charged up to the front desk and started to loudly complain.
"You said it would be ten minutes and we've been here AN HOUR!"
The owner came back up to the desk and sorta, kinda apologized. "Please, I am so sorry. It will just be about ten minutes..."
That seemed to be the breaking point and suddenly the waiting area erupted in disgust. As everyone started arguing I quietly slunk out the door.
So what to do.
A few days later I was driving by a local strip mall and I saw it, a blunt, dull sign saying "The Haircut".
How bad could it be?
Walking through the doors was like passing through a time portal which transported you back nearly 30 years to 1984. It was "Morning in America" again. It was magical.
The floor was a dizzying checkerboard of black and white tiles. The surfaces were all polished chrome and lacquered black and Fleck-Tone paint. Classic 80's wallpaper - silver and black with geometric shapes in turquoise and hot pink. Lining the walls were fading Patrick Nadel prints. You could practically hear the Duran Duran...
"Her name is Rio and she dances on the sand
Just like that river twisting through a dusty land..."
Was the haircut any good? That's kind of beside the point. You don't go to "The Haircut" for the haircut, you go for the magic.
To relive your youth.
To escape to a simpler time.
For ten minutes.
Fifteen if you a get a shampoo.
"Oh Rio, Rio dance across the Rio Grande..."
