The barber of Tavernier

Is there anything more traumatic than breaking in a new barber? I mean, besides the things that are?

The first hurdle, potentially the unkindest cut, is the first walk through the new door. Please, please, God of Hair and Hair Products: please allow the first sight of the inside of the new shop to not be appalling. Please let there be a man or a woman standing there, cutting somebody else’s hair, or reading a magazine waiting for someone to come through the door in need of a haircut. Anything else is a horrible nightmare. A plate of finger food sitting on a table, a card game in progress, terminals facing toward the customer: all potentially horrible fauxs pas lurking behind the new door.

Who the hell knows how they cut hair down here? It could be a fucking Japanese tea ceremony of unstated but terrifically critical balletic social movements that are the difference between my getting my haircut and being run out of town on a fucking rail.

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