When I turned sixteen, I committed my first act of open rebellion.
I stopped going to the barber my mother had taken me to since I was seven.
Well, that's not entirely true. My mother wouldn't take me. She would force my stepfather to take me.
Why, you ask?
Because going to the barber--Vinny--was something you had to do early on a Saturday morning, and it took about four hours.
Getting a haircut became a full-day ordeal when you went to Vinny's, because Vinny liked to talk--and talk, and talk, and talk.
His shop was almost cinematic in how stereotypical it was. Guys would come in, read the paper, chat up Vinny, and then leave--never getting a lock cut off their head.
I should mention that if you went to Vinny's, you were only getting one kind of haircut--a buzzcut.
To get the easiest, and what should be the quickest, haircut would take hours and hours.
It used to drive me insane.
I would sit in one of Vinny's uncomfortable chairs in his tiny waiting room with all assortments of gruff and groggy men, trying to watch whatever was on the two-inch black and white television set he had for entertainment. The only magazines were Sports Illustrated from two years ago, and a couple of old newspapers that Vinny's clientele would read over and over again.
It became clear early on that Vinny's customers didn't actually WANT to get out of there quickly. They had nothing else to do, or they had wives to go home to that would nag them about something, so they liked sitting in that little waiting room and having a few hours off from life.
I, on the other hand, would slowly lose my mind.
People would call the shop to see how long the wait was, and Vinny would always respond with--"Twenty minutes."
I could never figure out if Vinny knew he was lying to these people to get them to come down, knowing that a three-hour wait might deter them, or if he genuinely had no concept of time while he was in his shop.
The latter wouldn't surprise me. If there was any place that defied the laws of physics, it was Vinny's Barbershop.
How else could men with a little bit of hair go around the corner that separated Vinny's work station from the waiting room, and come back around an hour later with only a little bit less hair than they had initially?
There was a loophole that could get you in and out faster, but nobody ever took it.
Over the years, Vinny had an assortment of assistants, none of whom ever lasted for long. Most of them quit, because none of the customers ever went to them, meaning they never made any tips.
Despite the fact that all Vinny did was take a buzzer to your scalp and shave off all your hair, for some reason, people insisted that Vinny was the expert on shaving off hair. If his assistant did it, you'd hear people complaining before the door to the shop even closed.
"Man, look at this. The other guy didn't do this right. Next time, I gotta wait for Vinny."
Oh, poor "other guy." None of them ever had names. They were always "the other guy" and they could never seem to master the art of that illusive hair-styling instrument--the buzzer.
Finally, the week after my sixteenth birthday, I'd have enough. My mom was throwing me a belated party on Sunday, and she wanted me to get a haircut.
"Fine," I said, "I'll go to Aunt Patricia's salon."
My mother looked at me like I said I was going to go pick up a streetwalker.
"Why aren't you going to Vinny's," she asked, as if the old man had dropped dead and nobody told her. What other reason could I have for switching to Aunt's salon even though my Aunt is a professional stylist with one of the best salons in the state, and Vinny's chewing tobacco tends to drool out of his mouth while he's within a foot of your head.
"Because," I said to my mother, taking a deep breath, "I don't feel like wasting half my Saturday just to get all my hair shaved off. I could do that myself in front of the bathroom mirror."
My mother and I went back and forth for about an hour until I finally managed to back her into a corner.
"Mom, I'll tell you what," I said, "If you come with me to Vinny's, I'll get my haircut there."
Now, my mother wasn't completely ignorant to what went on at Vinny's. She had taken me once, and after that, she would use all sorts of bribery to get my stepfather to take me, often giving him twenty dollars more than the haircut cost just so that she wouldn't wind up having to read about the joys of carp in one of Vinny's fishing magazines.
"Fine," she said, "You don't have to go."
I was jubilant, but my excitement was to be short-lived.
A month or so later, I would wind up at my aunt's salon to get my haircut, but five minutes after my mother conceded the Vinny argument, I was in front of the bathroom mirror, watching my mother attempt to buzz off all my hair.
It turns out the buzzer is a tricky instrument after all. Although I think my mother might have nicked my ear one or two more times than was necessary--just to drive the point home.
I stopped going to the barber my mother had taken me to since I was seven.
Well, that's not entirely true. My mother wouldn't take me. She would force my stepfather to take me.
Why, you ask?
Because going to the barber--Vinny--was something you had to do early on a Saturday morning, and it took about four hours.
Getting a haircut became a full-day ordeal when you went to Vinny's, because Vinny liked to talk--and talk, and talk, and talk.
His shop was almost cinematic in how stereotypical it was. Guys would come in, read the paper, chat up Vinny, and then leave--never getting a lock cut off their head.
I should mention that if you went to Vinny's, you were only getting one kind of haircut--a buzzcut.
To get the easiest, and what should be the quickest, haircut would take hours and hours.
It used to drive me insane.
I would sit in one of Vinny's uncomfortable chairs in his tiny waiting room with all assortments of gruff and groggy men, trying to watch whatever was on the two-inch black and white television set he had for entertainment. The only magazines were Sports Illustrated from two years ago, and a couple of old newspapers that Vinny's clientele would read over and over again.
It became clear early on that Vinny's customers didn't actually WANT to get out of there quickly. They had nothing else to do, or they had wives to go home to that would nag them about something, so they liked sitting in that little waiting room and having a few hours off from life.
I, on the other hand, would slowly lose my mind.
People would call the shop to see how long the wait was, and Vinny would always respond with--"Twenty minutes."
I could never figure out if Vinny knew he was lying to these people to get them to come down, knowing that a three-hour wait might deter them, or if he genuinely had no concept of time while he was in his shop.
The latter wouldn't surprise me. If there was any place that defied the laws of physics, it was Vinny's Barbershop.
How else could men with a little bit of hair go around the corner that separated Vinny's work station from the waiting room, and come back around an hour later with only a little bit less hair than they had initially?
There was a loophole that could get you in and out faster, but nobody ever took it.
Over the years, Vinny had an assortment of assistants, none of whom ever lasted for long. Most of them quit, because none of the customers ever went to them, meaning they never made any tips.
Despite the fact that all Vinny did was take a buzzer to your scalp and shave off all your hair, for some reason, people insisted that Vinny was the expert on shaving off hair. If his assistant did it, you'd hear people complaining before the door to the shop even closed.
"Man, look at this. The other guy didn't do this right. Next time, I gotta wait for Vinny."
Oh, poor "other guy." None of them ever had names. They were always "the other guy" and they could never seem to master the art of that illusive hair-styling instrument--the buzzer.
Finally, the week after my sixteenth birthday, I'd have enough. My mom was throwing me a belated party on Sunday, and she wanted me to get a haircut.
"Fine," I said, "I'll go to Aunt Patricia's salon."
My mother looked at me like I said I was going to go pick up a streetwalker.
"Why aren't you going to Vinny's," she asked, as if the old man had dropped dead and nobody told her. What other reason could I have for switching to Aunt's salon even though my Aunt is a professional stylist with one of the best salons in the state, and Vinny's chewing tobacco tends to drool out of his mouth while he's within a foot of your head.
"Because," I said to my mother, taking a deep breath, "I don't feel like wasting half my Saturday just to get all my hair shaved off. I could do that myself in front of the bathroom mirror."
My mother and I went back and forth for about an hour until I finally managed to back her into a corner.
"Mom, I'll tell you what," I said, "If you come with me to Vinny's, I'll get my haircut there."
Now, my mother wasn't completely ignorant to what went on at Vinny's. She had taken me once, and after that, she would use all sorts of bribery to get my stepfather to take me, often giving him twenty dollars more than the haircut cost just so that she wouldn't wind up having to read about the joys of carp in one of Vinny's fishing magazines.
"Fine," she said, "You don't have to go."
I was jubilant, but my excitement was to be short-lived.
A month or so later, I would wind up at my aunt's salon to get my haircut, but five minutes after my mother conceded the Vinny argument, I was in front of the bathroom mirror, watching my mother attempt to buzz off all my hair.
It turns out the buzzer is a tricky instrument after all. Although I think my mother might have nicked my ear one or two more times than was necessary--just to drive the point home.
Comments
Post a Comment