Barbering
Some few places provide me an instant, smiling serenity when I walk into them. A reputable cigar shop with a well-maintained humidor. A certain unpretentious local Sicilian restaurant with Americanized red sauce and a scent of childhood. A thumping, uninhibited goth-industrial dancefloor. Hidden alcoves in Los Angeles where black silhouettes of palm trees are attractively marred by power lines.
Among this list is a barber shop I now visit when my skull gets too fuzzy. It is a ritual I don’t need per se, for I can get myself a Wahl balding clipper and render my head shorn at will. Yet I come here, for the barber shop is one of those decidedly masculine endeavors.
