Thursday, February 12, 2004
Look Good - Feel Better
When I get a haircut, I don’t ask for much. I don’t need to be entertained or coddled - though that can be a nice touch when done properly. But I generally keep my expectations low and just hope no one screws up my head for me so I can relax and unwind for a little while That’s all I want.
The UN Mafia barbershop at Second and Mission had fulfilled these needs a few times for me already. I was inclined to overlook its sordid seediness for the authenticity of the experience, the bizarre polyglot sketch factor - and anyway it’s hard to screw up my haircut. But I think I just had a ‘last straw” experience there and I won’t be going back.
First, as my russian barber - who was clownishly attired in maroon slacks, a deep blue plaid business shirt and a wide white necktie - began trimming my impertinent fringe, a heavyset woman walked in to the tiny cluttered shop and started speaking in spanish with one of the other barbers. The woman was in her 20s, with thick black hair and dark downcast eyes, a cheap exercise suit and dark purple bruises across her face. She mumbled back and forth with the other barber for a few minutes, occasionally smiling and shrugging her shoulders helplessly, apologetically. I could barely hear her voice, though she stood only five feet from me. From the bruises it looked like something had struck the outside of her left eye, blackening it thoroughly; another blow had caught the front of her mouth, leaving her lips swollen and discolored. Those were the only bruises I could see.
After she shuffled out and on her way, eyes to the sidewalk, the other barber confirmed that she’d been beaten by her husband. That upset me - but not so much as how he then started talking about it. “Yes, that’s how we do it at home, that’s how to keep them in line...” he grunted jocularly in his thick accent, on the verge of mirthless laughter. My own barber sensed my distaste and disavowed his colleague’s opinions; I just commented “that isn’t right.” I didn’t want to get into it in the middle of my haircut at such a questionable establishment. That’s a very vulnerable position, so I tried to hold my tongue.
Soon another patron showed up. He was porcine - overweight, bushy-haired, with a broad chin and a short flat nose; when he pulled off his anorak it raised his black t-shirt up over a broad and pendulous gut.... as my barber was wrapping up my trim, this other guy somehow heard I worked for the State Bar and got interested in me: he was an attorney, wanted to know if his dues would rise. He hoped they wouldn’t - he thinks it’s a ripoff, he gets nothing for his membership. He’d rather see state regulation (paid for equally by all taxpayers) than to answer to an independent dues-based oversight organization. I told him I could respect that opinion, and if he felt strongly about it he could advocate for it and perhaps effect a change.
And what kind of law, might I inquire, does he practice? He represents the National Rifle Association. He likes it okay, they take pretty good care of him… and on he went about how much he likes his working conditions and compensation. So here’s this human pig who makes his living trying to minimize state regulation of deadly weapons that exact an unimaginable toll in human life and misery. But when it’s worth $390 to him in annual fees - which he probably earns in two hours at his desk, bills to his employer, and writes off on his taxes - he embraces state regulation with an enthusism born of pure greed.
It’s not enough that his overall political and moral philosophy is inimical to mine, even reprehensible to me - the glory of a free society is the marketplace of ideas, after all… but his hypocracy in selectively abjuring or endorsing government involvement in matters of public concern, based on nothing more than on his own perceived short-term financial interests - this mercenary immorality revolted me. I excused myself, paid my barber for the last time, and left the bizarre little shop feeling sad and angry. That’s a lousy way to feel after a haircut. I guess I need to find a new cheap barber downtown. I won’t be going back to UN Mafia again.