I ventured home from the office on Friday with the intention of getting my mullet cut. I have very thick hair which doesn't necessarily get long, it gets big. Afro like. My destination was “The Razor's Edge.” In my opinion, the best barber shop in town.
The Razor's Edge is owned and operated by Sal. I don't know his last name, because it is completely inconsequential. Sal cuts my hair, we talk, we joke, I pay him, that's it. No last names needed. A visit to Sal is always a pleasant experience. From AM talk radio, to Jeopardy on the TV, to a political discussion, it doesn't get much better than Sal and the Razor's Edge. He takes such pride in his work and never strays from his normal routine. If the place is busy, you're gonna wait. He's not going to compromise a customer's haircut just to get through the line like it's Chipotle at lunchtime. You respect Sal, and he respects you and your hair. Waiting isn't all that bad because The Razor's Edge happily subscribes to more magazines than you can imagine, it even caters to the mature audience with Playboy, but those are in a special shelf, you know, so the kids don't get into 'em.
When I see Sal, it usually goes something like this (assuming there's no wait)...
Me: Hey Sal.
Sal: Hey.
Me: You ready?
Sal: Sure, the usual?
Me (now seated in barber chair): Yep.
Sal: Shorter or Longer?
Me (depending on the season): Shorter today Sal, definitely shorter.
Sal happily cuts my hair while we talk about current happenings in the neighborhood, politics, and of course Jeopardy. Sal loves Jeopardy, but he never really gets any of the questions right. He likes it when I do though.
Well, on Friday, I got to the Razor's Edge before the posted closing time of 6pm. Sadly, it was closed. Sal must have gone fishing or something.
In desperate need of a haircut, I made an executive decision. I had a busy Saturday, and Sal is closed on Sunday and Monday. On a whim, I did something I'll never do again. I went to Jerry's Barber Shop.
Jerry is a competitor of Sal's and I hated giving him my business, but it had to be done. I should have just waited until Tuesday. Jerry is a portly polish man who wears a lab coat that generously exposes his chest hair and gold chain. The coat features a patch on the pocket which reads “Master Barber.” He is nothing of the sort. His white coat is covered in hair clippings and his barber chair setup make you stare at yourself in a mirror about 2 feet away. The complete opposite of the comfortable expanses at the Razor's Edge.
Jerry started cutting my hair, and about halfway through asked if he should “cut the top.” Um, yes please. When the cut was finished he started spraying this strawberry smelling crap all over my head. Then, after he combed it for a bit, he sprayed some sort of coconut smelling agent on top of that. What is that stuff? I paid the man, choked on the fumes a bit more, and vowed never to go back.
This one's for you Sal.
schrags