Gary Panter blog

HAIRCUTS

I get a haircut every time I go to Texas, at Mr Penny's, on the west side of the square in Sulphur Springs. Mr Penny is no- nonsense and gives me a buzz in about two minutes. Once a neighbor of his was complaining about Mr Penny's chickens getting on his property and the neighbor threatened to shoot the chickens. Mr Penny said said Fine, but if one of your horses or bulls get out, I'll shoot it. End of that story.

I used to go to this old guy on 7th Avenue in Brooklyn, at Anthony's unisex barber shop. Tony was great. He was about 75, about 5 feet tall and had jet black dyed hair. He didn't talk sports or manly shit, but he took his time and cut my hair like I like it. Like a flat top. Tony went to visit his daughter in Florida at Christmas a few years ago and never came back. They said she was sick and he had to take care of her. I started looking for a new barber. I went back to Anthony's for a while, but they are all Russian barbers now and have a different sense of what hair looks like to me.

A lot of people still go to Astor Place, but to me it is a zoo. I haven't been there in 20 years.

You remember Richard Gehr, friend of Matt's, used to write for the Reader? He goes to this 85 year-old dude on 7th Avenue, in Park Slope. I went there once. The old barber is doddering and barbering on, bless him. He wears bermuda shorts and shuffles around on a carpet of hair stuck to his slippers.There is a red painted wooden car, kiddie-ride, that must be 40 years old for the little nippers.

I went there. He gave me a half-assed haircut and complained the whole time about how nobody wants a razor shave anymore, so I told him to give me a razor shave. I like hot lather and thought I'd make him happy. Luckily the razor was very dull. Bad shave. Happy old man.

So I'm driving on Smith St in Carroll Gardens. These days it's a 'hot' street. 100 restaurants opened in the last couple of years driving out the Puerto Ricans and Italian population—hipster couples abound. The men's clubs are not moved by this change, so there are vestiges and strongholds of the old neighborhood behind the scenes. Anyway, I see an old Italian barber sweeping in front of his place on Smith. I go in. No one there. I take the chair. The barber is not very friendly and smells solidly of liquor. What kind? I don't know. Not much of a drinker. Strong spirits. He starts cutting my hair and, as barbers will do, he adjusted my head now and then, but by slapping my head. And he kept taking breaks to go into the back to have an on-going screaming fight with some lumpen mover of boxes back there. Endless moving boxes thumping the walls and feet thudding upstairs and downstairs. Basement to attic. Attic to basement. Then back to slap my head around more.

At the end he got real happy with the job he was doing and cheered up and started gesturing at all my hair on the floor. He could have it. I was done with it. I was outta there.