By Mike Walk
There was a time in America — let’s call it the “Golden Age of Haircuts,” which was approximately 1971 to whenever the Internet ruined everything — when a man could walk into a barber shop, grunt once, and twenty minutes later walk out with a haircut, a splash of mysterious blue liquid on his neck, and possibly a lecture on the New York Yankees.
Back then, haircuts were performed by men with names like John or Harold, who were always in their early 40s and had suspiciously black hair that didn’t move. Harold never asked you how you wanted your hair. He knew. You’d sit down, he’d nod, and before you could say “short on the sides,” you’d already be looking at a pile of your hair on the floor the size of a raccoon.
Now, getting a haircut is like booking a spa treatment at an overpriced boutique that’s also a DJ lounge. The barbershop has been replaced by “studios,” where everyone is named Madison, Brielle, or Kaycee (with two E’s). They’re all 23, they all have a TikTok following, and none of them know what “a regular haircut” means.
Also — and this is key — haircuts now cost roughly the same as a used Hyundai. When did this happen? I remember paying $9 for a cut and being mad about the 75-cent tip. Now it’s $45 before tip, and they expect you to thank them for letting you wait 45 minutes while they finish giving some influencer a “textured fade with an edge-up and beard enhancement.”
What happened to just getting a haircut?
Here’s how the experience goes now:
1. You make an appointment online, because apparently we’re booking haircuts with the same software NASA uses to launch rockets.
2. You arrive on time. You wait 35 minutes because Kaycee is “running a bit behind” which is stylist-speak for “she went to Starbucks and forgot what scissors do.”
3. Kaycee asks you a million questions like: “What’s your hair goal?” and “What’s your self-care routine?” You say, “I just want it shorter and not dumb looking.” She stares at you like you’re speaking Chinese.
4. She turns the chair so you can’t see the mirror, because a modern haircut must remain a mystery until it’s over.
5. She starts using tools that look like they were designed by Elon Musk. There’s a vibrating thing. A thing that blows steam. A straight razor the size of a canoe paddle.
6. She tries to sell you products. “You should be using a matte pomade, a sculpting clay, and a texturizing sea salt mist.” You say, “I use a towel.”
7. The haircut ends. It looks… fine. But you’re not sure. Your ears look bigger. You might cry. She says, “Oh my God, I LOVE it.” This is stylist-speak for “I tried something experimental and now I’m scared too.”
8. You pay $57.50 plus tip and leave with a coupon for 10% off your next mortgage-level haircut.
And don’t even ask about getting your kid’s hair cut. That’s a whole other nightmare involving iPads, lollipops, and a stylist named Shiree who gives five-year-olds undercuts.
In conclusion, I propose a national return to men named Harold. No appointments. No scented candles. No sea salt mist. Just a chair, a comb, some suspicious blue liquid, and the sweet sound of a Baseball game playing on a dusty radio.
Bring back the real haircuts. My wallet — and my dignity — would appreciate it.
No comments:
Post a Comment