HairCuttery

The name HairCuttery alone should send any 25-year-old gay man screaming and running in the opposite direction (desperately crying out Salon! Salon!), yet unfortunately we are operating on a students budget which means no-flair-hair-care. The lovely ladies and gentlemen of the HC will get the job done for a mere $16 plus tip.

The setup is simple: you walk in, tell them your name, and wait to be called on. It is a lot like the DMV everyones there for the same reason but you all pretend you got there by accident, there are about 20 different languages being spoken by about 8 people, and although you know its something you have to do you would much rather be sipping tea at the gay Starbucks just down the road.

HC is the McDonalds of the beauty industry. It is easy in, easy out. There are about 20 stylists on staff, mostly women, with swivel chairs packed tightly into 2 rooms on Connecticut Avenue. Their business is to cut, shave, and sweep. I asked my stylist, Mesi, if fries came with my stop-and-chop; I dont think she understood me.

There is a certain thrill that accompanies explaining how you would like your hair to be cut to someone holding a large pair of scissors and an uncomfortable control of the English language. I have to get my kicks somewhere

After much confusing debate, Mesi and I agreed upon the number 3 for the sides of my head, and she went about shaving me with the delicacy of a sheep shearer. I dont think I will ever look at cotton the same way again.