Journeys of Jack Tripper

I had an experience today that I've not had in more than five years.

My lettuce had grown a bit out of control, owing to my daylight hours being dedicated to teaching, studying, and soccer for the past month or so, and it now being summer I thus ran out today to get my hairs cut. A new and heavily-promoted branch of Sport Clips recently opened down the street, and, enticed by the radio spots identifying it as "the place for men," I turned my back on my usual barber shop and entered Sport Clips.

The barber shop experience is important to me. My earliest memories of.. anything, really, are of my father taking me to the underground shop off Perry Street -- the main downtown drag in my hometown of Napoleon, Ohio. The two proprietors were old men who smoked cigars and had themselves long passed ever needing haircuts. In the back of their dark, smoky shop, they ran a shoe repair operation, one I never witnessed actually being patronized. Their magazine racks featured Sport Magazine in the front (have you ever seen a copy of Sport somewhere other than a barber shop?) and Playboy behind. The whole establishment reeked with the sweet smell of Vitalis.

I loved it.

The permitted topics of conversation were as broad as... well, they weren't broad at all. From January to October the Indians or Tigers were cursed or praised, with November and December being reserved for complaints about Brian Sipe and, later, Bernie Kosar. On rare occasions women or politics were debated. There was no discussion of how you liked your hair cut, as regardless of your head shape or hair type, you were going to be receiving a Princeton cut.

Figure One. The Princeton Cut.

So you sat in the ancient chair with the faded green vinyl seat and listened to the two old men argue about sports and you enjoyed a half hour away from women, because this is the barber shop, and women aren't allowed here.

Despite my feminist leanings, I've always believed in the barber shop experience, and one of the hardest parts of my many changes in residence have been finding a new barber. It was particularly bad in Zanesville, which is not wanting for barber shops, but is wanting for barbers who don't moonlight as butchers, practicing their craft on your scalp.

Exasperated at my inability to find a decent barber, I tried out the Regis salon at the mall, handing my head over to a cute, short redhead named Brittany. She wore faded, short camo pants and talked REALLY REALLY FAST. She also gave me the best haircut I've ever received, and when I returned a month later, I was astonished to find she'd been fired. Hell, I'd been planning on asking her out. The next best option was Wayne, a charming man whose skill in hairstyling was surpassed only by his flamboyant gayness. We bonded as fellow homeowners and I grew to look forward to my sessions with Wayne, even allowing him to wax my brows, once.

Yet I was anxious to return to the curses, cigars, and dirty magazines of the barber shop, and after an aborted attempt at becoming a regular at "Bob's," owing to a much-shorter-than-requested cut from an individual who wouldn't stop complaining about "those dirty Mexicans," I fell into the classic barber shop crowd at a place near the L.A. Hangout, where I've been a patron since.

Until today, when I became unfaithful and visited Sport Clips.

True to their word, the establishment is Sports-oriented. The outer lobby featured autographed pictures from Devil Rays and Lightning players, and a referee shirt-wearing cashier. A side gap allowed access to the rear of the establishment, which is where I assumed the barbers were. A sign above the cashier read: "SORRY. WE ONLY CUT MEN AND BOYS' HAIR."

The cashier, a girl of about 16, took my name and phone number, then told me to go on back. I shuffled over to the corner and crossed through the entry, only to find that this was not a barber shop. Yes, there were barber chairs, and the usual assortment of barber shop supplies (in addition to the as-advertised televisions broadcasting ESPN) but, to my shock and horror...

...There were no barbers. Instead, four women stood in the middle, wearing matching black "Sport Clips" polos and gossiping about someone's kid.

"You must be Tim," a large and out-of-shape woman said, approaching. "I'm Jean."

Jean resembled that girl in high school that everyone knew was a slut even though she was fat and ugly and you wondered who would have sex with her, and nobody admitted to it, yet for some reason everyone knew she was a slut. As I sat, terrified, in her gleaming new barber chair, I glanced at her Cosmetology certificate and realized Jean's photo was either from the 1980s or a party themed on the 1980s. Her hair, apparently having come straight out of a Whitesnake video, took up 90% of the picture. I was stunned to realize I was putting my hair in the hands of a woman who clearly could not even be trusted with her own.

I'll spare you the details of the haircut, the first one executed by a woman upon my lettuce since May 2001, but it's marginal. She didn't quite understand the intricacies of the thinning shears, or my request to have the back blocked off slightly higher. She could tell I wasn't comfortable with having a woman cut my hair. I imagined my individual hairs weaving back and forth to avoid her scissors. I wondered if maybe my Sports Clips was an anomaly, with the all-female staff, but their literature and wall decorations clearly indicated female stylists -- as does their web site.

Do they not understand the male barbershop experience? Do they not realize its very premise is the absence of women? Was I born 50 years too late, or am I just addicted to the smell of Vitalis combined with cigar smoke?

This is article #2 in an attempted 30 in 30 campaign.