“I’m frizzed out,” says my hair in the summer. New York summers always meant one thing, hair drama. Therefore, when I needed to snip my luscious curls I headed to Astor Place.
It’s symbolized by a big black cube, which separates the East Village from Greenwich Village. It welcomes everyone as they step off the 6 train. There’s the normal mix of corporate businesses, NYU and independent establishments.
For me, it was the site of many wonderful haircuts. The Astor Place barbershop is the underground route for a snip and shampoo. It feels like the old East Village, grungy, alternative and filled with character. For about 20 bucks, a very experienced barber (who’s of course, seen it all) gives you a proper haircut.
It was my favorite hair salon in the city. Moving to California meant, no more cool Downtown barbershops. Instead, I did the unthinkable going to a discounted hair salon. One sunny afternoon, I had the wonderful luck of having a hairdresser who just came back from happy hour.
At first, I thought the haircut looked swell. A day later, I was prepping for work, when I noticed all my sides were uneven. “Oh no, I look silly.” Worst of all, I was off to Santa Barbara’s French Festival for the weekend with Nicole. I tried not to let a bad haircut damper my spirits. However, I kept obsessing over it on the drive up to the coast.
” You look fine, stop obsessing,” said Nicole. Self-consciousness took over. We arrived at the French Festival. For the Franco-phile (someone in love with all things France), it was macaroon wishes and cafe au lait dreams. Traditional French music played, champagne flowed freely, poodles paraded and baguettes were objects of desire.
I couldn’t stop thinking about my hair. We then passed a beret stand. Nicole insisted I get a beret. It then hit me; the beret would cover up my silly haircut. I let me inner Frenchman run free and wore a beret throughout our weekend trip to Santa Barbara. Surprisingly, it fit me well.
When I returned home, I went to the fancy people hair salon. I removed the beret, my hairdresser looked at the awful haircut and gasped. ” I’ll fix it, but it’s gonna take a while to look normal again.” She did a swell job making me look somewhat fabulous.
Eventually my hair went back to normal. From then on, I always reminded my hairdressers to make sure the sides are even. I also find out if they just came back from happy hour. I’m moving back to New York soon, which means more fun times at the Astor Place barbershop.