In Search of a Barber

One of the worst parts about moving to a new area is the necessity of finding a new place to cut one’s hair. Hair cutting is about trust and, if one is a little avant-garde in their style, finding the right stylist for the job.

I first visited a barbershop a little over a year ago. My previous stylist abruptly left the shop he worked at, and interim hair cutter suggested that the style I wanted to replicate would be better done by a barber.

“They’re trained in those kind of techniques, you know. I’m not.”

Fiends, I was gob smacked.

Who knew that barbers were trained in different techniques from their hair stylist cousins!? I certainly did not! I just assumed they were practically the same thing. One just using an older term stemming from the male-only clientele era. As a matter of fact, it is still a bit of a search to find a barbershop that comfortably caters to women. My barbershop in Virginia did take female clients, but I was the only woman I ever saw in there with the exception of their female barber. Now that I was in South Carolina, I was determined I to find a place that was primarily staffed by women. And so my search began.

I turned to google for my first foray onto the field of battle:

Barber shops near me

Queer barbershops

Female barbershops

Women-owned barbershops

Eventually, I found two that looked interesting. They were about the same distance from me, but one was a little smaller and had a more diverse racial profile so I decided to try that one first. There seemed to be two primary barbers working there, and I took the one with the earliest time available.

I know going to a new hair place can be nerve-wracking. What if it ends up terrible?! But honestly I wasn’t too nervous this time around. I’d already been to a barbershop before. Plus, the benefit of being unemployed is no one but the people you live with will have to see your hair if it gets ruined. And if that were the case, I could always try the other barbershop in the hopes they could salvage it into something better suited to my sensibilities.

But first I had to get inside the shop.

This particular barbershop is nestled in a tiny strip mall set nearly-on-top-of a very large, busy intersection. No worries though! I checked google maps to make sure I knew where the entrance was located. I’d make a left-hand turn through the intersection and then an immediate right into the parking lot, a tiny, single strip of spaces in front of the equally small strip mall.

Unfortunately, the moment I turned into the parking lot, I knew I was in trouble. Not only were the spaces were facing the wrong direction but also the addition of bold arrow pointing in the opposite direction told me I was screwed. I hastily reversed, but even in my tiny car, there was barely any room to back up and not send my bumper careening over the sidewalk and into the six lanes of busy traffic. After much cursing and gnashing of teeth, I managed to get turned around and head right back out the entrance I had pulled into. Much to the amusement of the construction workers in the building I was doing said maneuvers in front of. I quickly whipped out onto the street then turned right into the very next parking lot. It was a poorly maintained lot that had been cracked and pitted long before the Goodwill that used to occupy the space had been taken over by some kind of gym.

I left my car (with a quick prayer it would still be there when I returned) and headed for the strip mall. There was a fence between the two areas but thankfully it ran out just before the edge of the street. I skirted around it then walk-of-shamed myself down the parking lot I’d just k-turned out of. After all that nonsense, I was relieved to find the barbershop very easily. Inside was small but beautifully decorated. One woman sat at the front desk. Another in a chair in the waiting area. Both barbers working that day were women as well. I felt immediately at home. Safe among so many women.

I was directed to a seat and asked what kind of haircut I wanted and did I bring any pictures? Here I deviated from the norm. Usually, I bring some kind of picture reference. This time I decided to be daring. The website had said photos weren’t necessary. It was time to see if I would end up regretting that decision.

“I don’t have any pictures. I was hoping I could keep the style I currently have on top. Just shorten it down a bit and clip the sides.”

The barber, whom I will call Jess, asked me some clarifying questions before setting off in a flurry of clipping and buzzing.

And here came the first true snag of this outing. As an introvert, I am something of a conundrum to hair cutters. Most of the ones I encounter seem to exude a kind of extroverted energy. They ask questions about your life, your family, your work. This is considered normal, and perhaps, even expected. Even if they don’t talk to you, most will carry on an animated conversation with the stylists around them. This is often true even in male-dominated spaces. When asked a question, I will willing answer. But then I just…don’t keep talking. I can never tell if this is a relief to people who need to multi-task speaking and cutting for hours at a time or an incredibly awkward social gaff.

(Let’s be honest. Probably nobody but myself is even worrying about this.)

My social anxiety aside, staying silent gives me the opportunity to watch the others in the shop and indulge in a long-time habit: eavesdropping.

While Jess was busy snipping and shaving, the other barber—the owner of the establishment—brought over the woman who had been curled up in the waiting area when I came in. I hadn’t tried to interact with her much as I got the impression she didn’t want to talk. Or even to be looked at very long.

Turns out my judgment had been right.

As I listened to them talk, I discovered she was here for an emergency haircut, a desperate attempt to salvage what someone else had done to her hair. What a terrible position to be in! But something very interesting happened as I watched the two. Very slowly her confidence began to return. Instead of hunching down, she sat up straight and even posed a little. Now, this is partly the fact that she was much happier with her ending haircut. However, a large part of it was also the mien of the owner herself who embodied an incredibly intoxicating mixture of confidence, kindness, and inspiration. Confidence that she could, indeed, salvage the situation. Kindness in making her client feel no judgement, only support in this difficult situation. Inspiration in the way she consistently and insistently built the other woman up.

Jess and I also pitched in from across the room, reassuring the woman that she would be okay. That the owner was famous for fixing the unfixable (Jess’s words), and that she’d be able to hold her head up proudly when everything was done. I wasn’t even the target of this outpouring of warmth and kindness, but I felt nearly euphoric just being in the same room to witness it. It was truly a women-supporting-women experience.

While the owner was working her magic, I was undergoing something new as well. Once Jess had finished up my hair, she called over her coworker at the front desk to do some particular technique. I can’t recall the name of said technique, but they chattered on about different ways to achieve it. Naturally, I asked the front desk woman about her experience as a barber only to find out she was the daughter of the owner and had, to her chagrin, been co-opted into the experience. It would appear that the parental pressure to follow in their footsteps is alive and well! (No, mother. I will never become a teacher like you. Just...no.)

After the daughter finished the technique and returned to the front desk, Jess continued to work on my hair while we chatted. We shared where we both came from. The fact that she was military kid. How old her son was. The horror of raising children in America. The usual stuff.

And then owner came over.

“Let me take a look.”

Yes, fiends. A third person came to work on my hair. She didn’t do too much. Mostly straightened out a few cuts and checked it over. But I was still shook. Three people? For my tiny head of hair? This was more attention than I had ever had at a barber shop!

Now to be fair, Jess was still learning. So it makes sense for her to ask for help when needed and for the owner to check it over before I pay the bill. You want the customer to leave satisfied, after all. But still. Three people looking over my head? If my roots were sentient, they would have flushed.

As it was, all three did an excellent job on my hair, and I look forward to returning the next time I need a hair cut. And who knows? Maybe next time I’ll get four people working on my hair.

That’s all from me for now, fiends. Until next time!