The other day I decided to buy a box of fortune cookies, hoping I could purchase some encouragement. The city kind of slapped me in the face. It does that. You sink or you swim. I've had to learn this over the last couple of weeks.Part of me really likes how fast-paced the city is, and another part of me finds it exhausting. I met an interesting individual today who said the city becomes harder to leave the longer you're in it, and I definitely believe that. I've never felt completely stimulated like I do in New York City. Everything around me is new, including the people, the buildings, the languages, the smells, the subway system, the way people interact with eachother — Everything.
I want my experience here to be authentic. I'm not interested in finding a similar routine to the one I lived in Lawrence. When I moved here I told myself I would live and breathe the restaurant world, and I think I'm on the path to doing just that. I want each day to show me something new and introduce me to someone I haven't met before. Today that person was Danny.
Danny cut my hair today and it was anything but a typical trip to the salon. After several cold walk-ins to neighborhood salons, I was lost. The places I visited were not happening. Either the stylists didn't speak English or they wanted me to sit down and take my money before I could even explain the look I wanted to maintain. I decided to put my search in the hands of Yelp.com and after reading about all the options in my area, I decided to call Danny, the man behind The Hair Bar.
I think I was sold when one reviewer called him "a hair ninja." I got the impression from all the reviews that The Hair Bar was a mysterious gem in Alphabet City, a best kept secret if you will. Unlike the fancy salons I judged by Web presence, The Hair Bar only had a phone number on the Yelp site. Some reviews mentioned how much they enjoyed being able to go to Danny's apartment for a quality cut at a fraction of a salon price, and better yet, at any hour. Danny works with his client's schedule and even makes house calls for some clients. With my weird restaurant hours, that sounded appealing, as did the whole concept of sitting down for a drink while my hair was being fixed.
Shopping for a hairdresser is serious business. You have to feel comfortable with whoever is holding scissors at your head. You are at their mercy. They have complete control when you're in their chair, sometimes with your back to the mirror. I wasn't going to take the search process too lightly, especially after looking at the salons that neighbored my apartment.
I had an idea of what Danny might be like when he returned my phone call this afternoon. He sounded a bit spacey, but really friendly. He invited me to come over later in the evening and asked me a few questions about my hair. He seemed a little goofy (which I welcomed) and even though our phone call was brief, I was intrigued by our exchange.
I arrived in the general neighborhood an hour early in hopes that I would find a coffee shop and be able to do a little writing. I stopped at a place called Life Cafe where I had a happy hour margarita and pecked at my keys a little bit. When it was time to walk to my appointment I noticed that the neighborhood was a little rougher compared to where I lived just several blocks away. I didn't see college kids everywhere and everyone seemed a little more seasoned by the streets. I realized this probably wasn't an area I would want to walk around by myself at night.
I rang Danny's bell and was buzzed into the building. He greeted me at his door. He was very punk rock. The sides of his head were buzzed shorter than the rest of his hair that stuck up on the top of his head like a quasi mohawk. His jeans hung on his skinny hips and tattoos peaked out from his black T-shirt sleeves. He looked like he could hang with Sid Vicious and Alice Cooper. He smiled, shook my hand, and offered me a beer after he shut the door. I had considered bringing a six pack, but I had no idea what the man drank, so I figured I'd feel it out for the first time. He offered me a Pabst or a Miller Light. I chose Pabst.
I looked around his apartment in awe. The yellow walls were covered in magazine clippings, guitars, punk paintings, band photos, and old school pin-up girls. His mirror was framed with cut outs of blues musicians and punk rock guitarists. It was awesome beyond belief. He invited me to have a seat in his chair and we talked a little bit before the conversation shifted to my hair. He listened and stood to examine my grown-out cut. He then began cutting, in a very unconventional way. I had read that he had a style of cutting all his own, which I was looking forward to observing.
He cut my hair dry, twisting it and ran his shears down the twist of hair. He'd occasionally work on my bangs and return to the rest of my hair. He creatively cut my hair all while occasionally taking a sip from his beer and telling me stories from his beauty school past, 23 years ago. He told me how he was almost a beauty school dropout and how all he wanted to do in hair school was dropkick mannequin heads. He didn't like how monotonous beauty school was, and he didn't think he was going to make it. After 15 years of working at one of Manhattan's better known edgy salons called Mudhoney, Danny threw in the towel. He decided to take his business into his own hands, which also catered to his music career.
His stories were so entertaining that I didn't care what he was doing with my hair. I just wanted to listen. Blues music played as he continued to tell stories and clip at my hair. He was done within thirty minutes, which left us time to chat before his next client. He offered to dye my hair if I went and bought the dye and he told me I could come whenever he wasn't playing music. Our hairdresser-client relationship was off to a great start.
I'm sure it sounds a little crazy to go to some guy's apartment for a haircut, but I loved how unique the experience was and I'm certain I'll return. It's these experiences that make me value my time in the city that much more.
