March 19, 2010--Snowbirding: The $7.00 Haircut

I have very little hair, but what is left is precious to me. So when in New York, I do not scrimp on haircuts. In fact, I have been known—under some pressure from Rona—to make my way uptown to places such as John Sahag’s salon where I have paid much more than $100 to have my few locks “styled.” There is no volume discount—less is not less, but rather I pay the same as Richard Gere who, with his full head of hair, might very well be in that private styling room facing Madison Avenue.

I selected John Sahag after I read something inspiring about him. It sounded like he was the right one for me. If anyone could do something with my thinning fringe, he would likely be the one. And worth every penny.

Read for yourself from his Website:

After years of studying art and sculpture, John began to experiment by straightening hair out first - and then he would cut and carve shapes into that dry hair - going in and out, shaping, building, structuring hair just like an architect would go about his craft. He created bold and dynamic styles that would just flow into place, as if that style has always been there. Like you were born with it!

In my case, there was no need to do any straightening—untreated, mine hangs pretty limply on its own. But I did like the Sahag emphasis on structuring and building. Especially the building. Of that, I can surely use all that John Sahag can do for me. And if, after all his ministerings, my hair can again look, as they claim, like it was when I was born, well, that would be something.

But I know, I know . . . I have to be realistic.

Down here in South Florida, I have had to think about my hair in a very different way. In fact, since there are no hair “salons” within 20 miles of where we are living, there are more typically barbers, I have not felt the same pressure to dwell too much on my hair. In fact, to keep the sun off my head I tend to wear caps whenever we’re out and so the hair I have is largely out of sight.

During our winters in the south, Rona merely expects me to keep my hair neat. To help with that, she cleans up my neck periodically and does some light trimming around my ears. In truth, what she does every week or so is not so much different than what I pay top dollar for back in Manhattan.

But since we have a few events coming up, where wearing my cap would be inappropriate—Passover at my mother’s, for example--Rona has been nudging me to get a real haircut. Sensing my desire to avoid the subject, she asked, “Why not go back to Jay’s Men’s Barber who did such nice work on you last year?”

“I’m not sure he’s in business any more. What with the recession and his prices—he charged me $25 for a trim and didn’t even wash my hair (that was $5 extra)—when we drove by there last week it looked as if the lights were out. And a few weeks before that it looked as if Jay was alone in his shop, sitting in one of his chairs and reading Maxim Magazine.” I remembered that getting my hands on a copy of Maxim last year helped me deal with spending $25 plus tip on a very ordinary trim.

“Why are you being so frugal? Back in the City you spend more than four times as much on getting your hair styled? I don’t know what gets into you when we’re down in Florida. For example, just the other day, in Whole Foods, you refused to spend $3.95 for a bag of organic spinach.”

“Sorry,” I leapt to defend myself, “but I’m not comfortable paying that much for a handful of spinach that will only make two tiny portions.”

“But the other day we had steak at Cut 321 and they charged $8.00 for a side order of spinach.”

“But it was creamed spinach. You have to pay for the cream. And also the preparation. Also, for the gas they use, for washing the dishes and pots, and of course there’s the rent and the profit. If I’m going to make spinach at home I don’t want to pay Whole Food prices.”

“You’re getting to be impossible. But do me one favor and get your hair cut. I don’t care how much or little it costs. But get it done. Please! You know how upset your mother gets if you show up at Forest Trace with shaggy hair. If not for me, for her sake. She’s nearly 102. It’s the least you can do.”

“I hear you. But lately you’ve really been on my case about haircuts. With this hair,” I took off my cap and ran my fingers through my few remaining hairs, “who cares what it looks like?”

“Well, I do. I’m the one who has to look at it.” And with that she turned from me and strode up Atlantic Avenue.

With the retort about having to look at me, I knew I had better locate someone to cut my hair. And soon.

I am pleased to be able to report that soon arrived just this morning.

Rona had heard about a tailor who did an excellent job of altering clothes; and since we had made a successful visit to the Sawgrass Mall where both of us had found slacks at Neiman-Marcus’ Last Call, where unsold clothes from all of their stores in the southeast are gathered and put on sale at exceptionally good prices, we both had trousers that needed hemming.

So last week we made our way to Hilmi‘s in the Carnival Flea Market. A large, 35,000 square-foot barn of a place subdivided into more than 100 tiny shops separated by unadorned plywood walls. They range up and down aisles with alliterative names such as Balloon Boulevard, Popcorn Place, and Cotton Candy Lane. Some sell discount cosmetics; others ladies sleepware; another, men’s belts; at yet another you can get house keys duplicated. And in the middle of this organized chaos, tightly squeezed between a Tee-shirt booth where they silkscreen a wide rage of Yiddish expressions onto shirts and aprons, and a jewelry repair stand, at the intersection of Circus-Circus and Fantasy Fairway, sits Hilmi‘s.

We had heard about him from a cousin, an excellent shopper who insists on high quality goods and services while paying careful attention to the price of things. Though there is nothing fancy about either the Carnival or Hilmi‘s, quite the contrary, if while here we have become reasonably comfortable shopping at Wal-Mart’s for paper goods and socks and such, and sitting down for an occasional early-bird dinner at 5:30, why not, we thought, put aside our downtown pretensions and give Hilmi a try.

How bad could it be? Even if the hems didn’t turn out to be perfect, not as good as we have come to expect from our Lexington Avenue tailor, the pants we bought at Last Call were 75 percent off, and so what was there to lose? Especially at $7.50 a hem.

So yesterday, after breakfast, after waiting a week, we returned to the Carnival Flea Market to pick up our slacks.

Hilmi apologized that they weren’t ready. “I know I promised, but one of my regulars came in with a dress for her son’s wedding. She lost six pounds from worrying about the caterer, between us pounds she’ll never miss, and told me it was falling off her. What could I do for her she asked? And you know me,” which we in fact didn’t—this was our first experience with him, “I mean you don’t know me but if you did you would know that I would drop everything—your slacks for example—to take care of her. The last thing I wanted was for her to embarrass her son. He is such a fine boy and his fiancée’s family are from very fine people. So I said to her, ‘Mrs. Siegelman, there is nothing to be hysterical about. I can make a perfect fit for you. Losing a little weight from a tailor’s perspective is a much better thing than gaining. Since there is so little extra material, I would have had to put in a gusset; but in your case, no problem.’”

“You do not have to explain,” Rona is very understanding about these things, “We live close by. We do not need these pants. Actually, I don’t even know why we bought them. But he Steven said, ‘How can we not? They are more than half off.’” She shot a look at me, “I don’t know what’s gotten into him. If something is half off he’ll buy anything. I can’t tell you how many pots we have from Home Goods that we don’t need. I don’t think we’ll have room in the car when we drive back to Manhattan—that’s where we’re from--for everything he bought.”

“This too I understand,” Hilmi said sympathetically, “this seems to happen to so many snowbirds from New York,” Rona was nodding in vigorous agreement, “but there is no need for you to come back tomorrow. Take a walk around the shops here. Did you see the new one that sells health food at discount prices? Whatever you buy you don’t have to take in the car to New York with you. You can eat it while you’re here. All I need is another half hour to finish yours, which by the way is made from very nice fabric, and I will be done.”

Rona and I exchanged a look and said to Hilmi and I said, “We’ll see you in half an hour. And, Rona,” I added, “look, right here is a man who does jewelry repair. You’ve been after me for months to get the latch on my watch bracelet fixed. And also to have it cleaned. He doesn’t look busy. Maybe he can do the repair and clean it for me while we’re waiting.”

“Are you serious?” Rona whispered to me so the jeweler would not overhear her, “Didn’t you tell me the other day that that Oris watch of yours has become very valuable? You saw one just like it on the Internet, you claimed, that they wanted $4,000 for. If you want to get a watch like that fixed while we’re here we should drive up to Palm Beach. I think they have a Tourneau there.”

“This place looks nice to me. It’s so clean and neat as compared to some of the other booths. And he looks Jamaican. I think they have very good jewelers in Jamaica.”

“You’re making that up. What do you know about Jamaican jewelers? You’ve never been there and never used any jeweler at all, much less one from Jamaica.”

“That’s true, but I think I read about this somewhere.”

“You can’t fool me with this nonsense. I know what you’re thinking. It will be cheaper to get it done here. I’m sure that’s true, but still . . .”

“Let me ask him. It doesn’t hurt to ask does it?” And with that I turned to him and showed him my watch. “Do you think you could fix the clasp and also clean the band? It hasn’t been done in a long time.” Rona had subtly pivoted away so as not to be a part of the decision making and was thumbing through the Tee shirts with the cutesy Yiddish sayings.

“I can see that,” he said stiffly. He put on his magnifier glasses and peered expertly at the watch. “Yes, I can do the work. This, actually, is a very fine watch. From the 1950s I would say. Incabloc.” I must have looked puzzled, “I mean, self-winding, isn’t it? Quite rare. They only made them for a short time. And rather few of them. I’d say this must be worth a few thousand. Do you have any interest in selling it?”

“Well, no,” I said, feeling proud of myself. And too Rona, who was still pretending to be interested in the Tee shirts, “You see. I told you here’s a man who knows his watches.”

“Of course I do,” he said with a bit of offended pride, “I have been doing this kind of work for more than 25 years. Do not be fooled by these surroundings.” With his hand he made a sweeping gesture that took in a quadrant of the flea market. “I can assure you that you will be pleased with my work.”

Hearing this and now clearly thinking that perhaps I had stumbled on a person well qualified to do this relatively basic job—I was not after all asking for the watch to be overhauled--Rona turned back to him and said, “You couldn’t possibly do it now? We have a half hour to wait while Hilmi finishes hemming my pants.”

“That, madam, would not be a problem. Walk around—not that I expect you would find much, or anything, to interest you—but a few of the stalls are not entirely uninteresting. I know that you are from Manhattan. I heard you tell that to Mr. Hilmi. Most of the people who come in here are from very different places.” I thought I caught him winking at Rona, “But at least you will have something to keep you occupied while you are waiting.”

He and Rona exchanged a knowing smile and she then said, “Thank you. Also, how much will this be? To work on his watch?”

“Well, let me see again what’s involved,” he said as he let his jeweler’s glasses slide from the top of his head to the bridge of his nose. I was holding my breath. “You will pay cash, I assume?” Rona nodded. “Then it will be fourteen.”

“That will be fine,” we said simultaneously; and, wanting to get away before he had a chance to reconsider, we added, “We’ll roam around and be back to pick up our pants and the watch.”

And with that, without another word passed between us, Rona turned right toward Candy Apple Lane and the hair care stand and I swung left and headed for Magic Way and the belt stall. I could always use a $6.00 stretch belt. We did need a little time apart. Unspoken was our plan to return in half an hour and rejoin each other at Hilmi’s.

But at Morty’s I could not find a belt to my liking. Actually, I found many belts to my liking—who could pass up three-for-fifteen dollars?—but none of them could pass Rona’s muster. They were admitted cheaply made. Could anything else be true for belts at this price? Too bad.

I wandered toward Clown’s Court where I found the health food stand. In truth, it was a nut and candy shop. Not much looked appetizing and less felt healthy. Thus, I drifted north up Clown’s Court, slowing down since it was only about five minutes since Rona and I had gone our separate ways. I still had lots of time to kill.

When I got to the intersection of Clown’s and Carousel Courts, as if in a mirage, as if conjured directly from my imagination, I came upon . . . a haircutting stall!

Six hand-me-down barber chairs, at each a lady barber, and in each a gentleman at least well into his seventies. Actually, perhaps closer to his eighties. And all with much less hair than I!

These women, I thought, must be more experienced with cutting—rather trimming—hair such as theirs and mine than John Sahag is likely to accrue in ten lifetimes of styling hair on Madison Avenue.

I could see no Richard Gere in any of the battered barber chairs and none who sat waiting in a ring of side chairs that faced the haircutting action. “How does this work?” I asked one of the men reading the Sun Sentinel.

“What? What?” he said, “I can’t hear you. My hearing aid batteries are dying.” Smiling, he looked up, “Just like me.”

I was puzzled, “I’m not following you,” I said.”

“Dying,” he boomed, “Like my batteries.” He tapped one of his mammoth ears with a trembling hand. “But if you’re asking how this place works, go over there—see those little cards on those hooks?—and take one of them. The ones on the left. It has a number on it. I’m 24.” He held his card up in front on my face. “And see, Lois over there,” he pointed in the direction of the barber at the first chair who had shoulder length hair that looked as if she had given it a Toni Home Permanent. Not a good sign, I thought. “Lois is terrific. The best one here. Maybe you’ll get lucky and she’ll do you. Everything in this life is a matter of luck. She’s cutting number 21. That guy over there with the stomach is 22. And that little fellow right here,” he was pointing again, “the one with the goiter, he’s 23. One before me.”

He continued, “I mean he’s not 23 but at least a hundred if he’s a day.” He grinned at his little joke. “Hardly makes sense for him to get his hair cut, if you know what I’m driving at. He’s got one foot in the you-know-what. Probably getting trimmed up for the services.” He leaned very close to me, “His, I mean.” He guffawed at that which in turn brought on a spasm of coughing. “I probably should go with him when they take him away. I got this emphysema.” I then noticed his oxygen tank. “A bad case. I’ll for sure be a goner in a month.”

Seeing my shocked look, he quickly added, “Just kidding. That’s me. Always making a joke. But if you get a move on you can be 25. The number 25 I mean. They move us along pretty quick here. If you get that number, take a copy of the AARP Magazine from right there by the numbers,” clearly there were no Maxims, “and maybe you’ll luck out and you’ll get Lois and she’ll take good care of you.”

He looked up at my nearly non-existent hair, “Though time and nature have already taken care of you. By my calculation,” he looked at his watch—I couldn’t help but notice that it wasn’t an Oris, “they’ll have you in a chair in no more than ten minutes; and with what you’ve got left up there on top,” he chucked again at his own joke, “it’ll take maybe five minutes to do you.”

This was feeling like fate to me—first the Jamaican jeweler and now this barber kiosk—and so I thought, what do I have to lose, and went over and took a ticket. Number 25, just as he said. And the AARP Magazine. I came back with it and sat next to my new friend. “The best thing of all,” he said, “it that the cut will set you back just seven bucks.”

Incredulous, I asked, “How much?” Thinking maybe he was joking again or already beginning to lose his marbles.

“You heard me. Seven smackers. Give the girl a three-dollar tip and walk out of here for ten dollars and feel he breeze around your ears. It doesn’t get much better than that.” Quickly switching gears and extending his palsied hand, he asked, “By the way, where you from? I’m Max and you’re . . .?”

“New York. I mean Manhattan. Downtown.” I very much wanted to distinguish myself from the other senior citizens slumped in the barber chairs. “Steve, I’m Steven.” I took his leathery hand in mine.

“Well, then, you’re in for another lesson about why snowbirding is such a wonderful thing. What’s a cut set you back up there, Stevie? I mean a ‘styling’? That’s what they call it, right?”

I was ashamed to tell the truth and so I fibbed, “A lot more than that. A ten is about how much I tip the girl who washes my hair.”

“Well here you won’t have that problem. And I hope you washed your hair yourself before you came here. You see those signs pasted on all the girls’ mirrors?” He read one to me, “’ Be Sure to Wash You Hair Before Getting Your Hair Cut.’ Though if you didn’t,” he said reassuringly, “That’s OK. Here they won’t be turning away business”

“Well, as it turns out I did. First thing this morning.”

During our little exchange, numbers 22 and 23 had been called. Just as I had been told to expect. “It’s looks as if you’re next,” I said.”

“That’s right,” he said while checking on progress at the other four chairs. “It’s looks to me as If I’ll have Tanya today. Which is fine. She’s quite a card. Never stops chattering away. From Russia originally. Just like me. Of course I came here 100 years ago!” More laughing and coughing. “And it looks as if you’ll have Lois. Just as I was hoping. She’s the best one.”

“We could switch numbers if you like,” I offered.

“No, but thanks. That’s very kind of you. Since this is your first time here so you should start off with the best. She’ll have you looking like George Clooney in no time. I mean the way he’ll look in fifty years. Just kidding,” he assured me, “But next time, we’ll fight for Lois.”

“Can’t you make an appointment to have Lois cut your hair? Up in New York we can ask for whoever we want.”

“That may be true up there,” he said, “How long you say you’ve been down here in Florida, son?” It felt nice at my age to be called son. “For $7.00, which you notice is the Senior Rate—Men’s, as opposed to Seniors I suppose, costs a whole $10.00—they don’t make appointments. Up there in the Apple, where whatever it is they do to you costs 50 bucks,” I was reluctant to interrupt to have him up his estimate, “I’m sure they’ll send a car to pick you up.”

And with that his number was called. He trundled over to Tanya‘s; and almost immediately Lois called 25 and I hopped over to her, hoisted myself into her chair, and introduced myself.

“I only have a few minutes,” I said, “I need to meet my wife over at Hilmi’s,” Lois looked at me as if I were speaking a foreign language.

“I have no idea who he is,” she said while fastening a plastic sheet around my neck. “I work here ten hours a day, six days a week, and I don’t have time to wander around this place. One day maybe I’ll have a chance to do so.”

“I know what you mean,” I muttered, feeling a little guilty that I had gotten us off to a tense start. “Sorry, I only meant to say that I have to meet my wife, Rona, in a few minutes, we have a few things to pick up at one of the shops over there and if I’m late she’ll worry about what might have happened to me.”

“When she sees you she’ll think she’s married to a new man.” She was running her fingers through my hair, lifting it. It is always so dry that from the tousling it remained sticking up in the air as if in a senior-citizen punk look.

“No problem at all. I’ll have you back on your feet in just a few minutes. Where you from?”

“New York.” I left it at that, thinking maybe I would fit in better if she thought I was as from upstate.

“Manhattan, right? You feel like you’re from there. I can tell from your shoes.” I looked down at them. They were my basic Eccos. Nothing really special. “And you’re all in black. A dead giveaway. So what can I do? Just clean you up?”

“Yes, that’s what Rona would want. I’m doing this for her—she says she has to look at me—and my mother. She’s 102 and we’re going to see her in about ten days, and she gets upset about what she says her friends will think if I come to her place looking shaggy.”

“Shaggy, I promise you you will not be.” And with that she began to snip away around my ears. “I’ll even clean up all that hair in your ears if you’d like.” I nodded. “Don’t move your head. I don’t want to clip one off. Isn’t it amazing, though, how men of a certain age have more hair in the noses, eyebrows, and ears than on their heads?” She tapped the top of mine as if to emphasize her point. “Well, I have some good wire cutters here for your ears.” She must have felt me stiffen, “I’m just playing with you. Without a little humor the day drags on forever. And,” she said softly to me, “you’re a lot younger than all these others fellows.” This made me feel decidedly better.

“So there you are,” it was Rona’s familiar voice, “I thought I lost you. I’ve been wandering up and down every aisle. And of all places, here you are.” I slid down in the chair fearing what might be coming next. “I see you found a haircutter’s. This is good. And long overdue.” Would she be upset that I was trusting my hair to someone working in such a, how shall I put it, basic place?

“Meet Lois,” I said preemptively. “Everyone says she’s the best.”

“Nice to meet you. I’m Rona.”

“Yes, I know. From Manhattan. I can tell. Like your husband you’re also all in black.”

“I like that,” Rona laughed. “We do stick out in a crowd. Neither one of us are very much for pastels. I have green skin and look at him. He needs black as camouflage.” They both laughed. “I’m teasing of course. He’s actually in very good shape. I mean, for someone his age.” They joined in more conspiratorial laughter.

“I’m almost done,” Lois said. She was buzz-cutting the few stubbly bristles that dotted the top of my head. To give it a cleaner look. “He handled things very well.” She was removing the sheet and brushing the remains of the hair clippings from the back of my neck. “Does he use any guck?” she asked Rona.

“Just a little. All things considered, for what he’s got there a little is more than enough.” More shared chuckles.

I slipped Lois a folded up ten plus two singles. I wanted to make a good impression. “That’s for you. Keep all of it.”

“It looks very nice,” Rona said, “Thank you indeed. Lois, right?” Lois nodded. Rona asked me to turn around. “Very nice indeed. I like what you did with the back. You made him look like Richard Gere.”

“Fifty years from now,” Max chimed in with a snort and cough from the adjourning chair. Clearly his hearing aides batteries were working again.

Smiling toward him, Rona said to Lois, “I find that the places down here take too much off.”

“That’s because they think,” Lois confided, “that unless they get a lot taken off that they’re not getting their money’s worth. But I realized that he, that both of you, are from New York. I mean Manhattan, and so I gave him a Madison Avenue cut.” How did she know about that I wondered.

“We have to run,” Rona said. “But we’ll be back in a few weeks. I’m getting to like this place.” I noticed that she had a small shopping bag. She must have bought some cosmetics while she was wandering.

I got off the chair and Rona took my hand as we walked down Clown’s Court back toward Hilmi’s. Both hems were finished and both pants fit perfectly. Thrilled, Rona gave him $15.00--$7.50 each. And my watch also was ready. The bracelet fit perfectly and the stainless steel band was so lustrous that it glinted in the fluorescent light. When it was new 60 years ago it never looked so good! Rona happily gave him $14.00 in cash.

With everything so satisfactorily accomplished, I turned toward the exit but Rona stopped me. “Before we go, take a quick look at what I bought.” She held up the bag so that I could see it.

“I can look at it when we get home.” I didn’t really need to see what she had bought at the cosmetic’s stall.

“Look at this,” she said, reaching into it. “Isn’t it terrific? It’s something you’ve been looking for since we arrived. To go with that flashy pair of red pants you bought at Last Call. The one’s you promised me you would wear only in Florida. That you would leave here for next year and not take with you to New York.”

So it was something for me. I was, then, quite curious. “Look,” she pulled it from the shopping bag, “it’s a stretch belt! I got it at a place here called Morty’s. On the way to Lois’. For only $6.00. If you like it we can get two more. Morty told me if you did he’d charge us only $15 for all three!”