Lawyers, barbers, and writers
My last haircut was a doozy. Alice, my barber, told me a story about an acid trip in a parked car and a cop with bad vibes who had a face that kept melting, as if his head was made out of Velveeta cheese. Alice told me she gave up the psychedelic life for Lent. I gave her more sobering news by explaining that her student loan debt may have been forgiven.
The haircut was so-so. There were some uneven areas. Thankfully, Christina became an unlicensed barber during the pandemic, so she finished the work Alice started.
I wanted the same barber, but they told me Alice had quit. I hope Alice quit because she was now debt-free and no longer needed the money, but her decision to leave the barber life was probably inspired by a post-Lent acid trip. Maybe both are true.
My barber was Joy. She was an older Asian woman who didn’t speak much English, so after we got through the preliminaries, I eavesdropped on the conversation from the chair next to mine.
The barber was a tall man, or maybe he just looked tall because I was sitting down. He had an epic beard that was one pandemic away from going full Rick Rubin.
Rick Rubin was bitching about a cop who gave him a “bullshit” speeding ticket on the 118 freeway. Rick’s customer was sympathetic. He was a middle-aged white guy who reminded me of Milton Waddams, the squirrelly, mumbling stapler-obsessed Office Space character played by Stephen Root.
“Were you speeding?” Milton asked.
“No,” Rick Rubin said. “I mean, yeah, I was speeding.”
“How fast were you going?”
“Ninety. Maybe ninety-five. One hundred—tops.”
The speed limit on the freeway is 65mph, but Milton didn’t judge.
“What kind of car were you driving?”
“A Tesla.”
“What model?” Milton asked.
“The X.”
The Tesla X model costs about eighty grand. I drive a ten-year-old Prius that’s on its third catalytic converter. Instead of Wesleyan, law school, and a successful writing career, I should’ve gone to barber college.
“He figured this guy’s rich, he can afford it.”
“Bastard,” Rick Rubin said.
“What color is your Tesla?”
“Red.”
“Jesus man. You were asking for it.”
“I thought that was a myth that cops target red cars,” Rick Rubin said. “You know, like that myth about bulls and red.”
Clearly, Rick Rubin was an idiot, but Milton was patient.
“The bull thing is real. That’s why one side of the matador’s cape is red.”
“You think the cop went to CSUN?” Rick Rubin asked.
CSUN is a nearby college. California State University at Northridge. Home of the Matadors. Maybe there was still time to go to barber college, I thought. If Rick Rubin could do it, so could I.
“Forget the red,” Milton said. “Are you gonna fight the ticket?”
“I don’t know,” Rick Rubin said. “I had a bad experience in traffic court.”
“You represented yourself?” Milton asked.
“Yeah. The cop was lying his ass off, and I told the judge, he’s lying his ass off, but the judge yelled at me. I lost. And then the asshole judge added on court fees. Can you believe that shit?”
“Yeah, they do that if you lose. It says so in the fine print on the ticket.”
“That’s why I’m just gonna pay it. Easier that way.”
“Your insurance rates are gonna go through the roof. You might have to sell the Tesla.”
“For real? I get so much ass with that car it’s not even funny.”
Evidently, Rick Rubin was right because Milton didn’t laugh about all the ass that came with the red Tesla.
“You could hire a lawyer,” Milton suggested.
“Too expensive.”
“Actually, it’s very reasonable. And effective.”
Milton held up his hand, signaling Rick Rubin to pause the haircut. He leaned for in his chair and pulled a card out of his pocket. He handed it to Rick Rubin.
“Give my office a call. We handle all kinds of traffic issues, and we win a lot. Judges respect us, cops fear us.”
Holy shit, I thought. Milton may have looked like a timid nothing-burger of a man, but he was a smooth operator who knew his ABCs—Always Be Closing.
A few minutes after Milton closed Rick Rubin, Joy finished cutting my hair. It looked good. But even if the haircut was a bust, I knew Christina could fix it.
“Thanks,” I said.
“You hairy man,” Joy replied.
The comment irked me. After radio silence, calling me hairy felt like an ad hominem attack somehow. But then I thought, if Milton can play it cool, so can I. We both went to law school, after all.
“Hairy is better than the alternative,” I said. “Bald guys are bad for business.”
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Stick around and chat!
I ask, you tell.
What’s my previous barber, Alice, up to? Wrong answers only!
What’s more epic than Rick Rubin’s beard? Think outside the beard!
Office Space rules, right?
Was Joy’s comment rude, or did I misread that one?
Have you ever beaten a traffic ticket? Tell your story!
One last thing
if you’re new here👇
My best beating a traffic ticket: one New Years Eve in the early 90s I was going … oh, very quickly on a back highway in South Carolina on my way to Atlanta for the holiday when I was pulled over by a highway patrol officer who whipped his car around to come after me. At the time I was a grad student at Duke and had a sticker on my car that allowed me to park in the Divinity School parking lot. Anyway … he walks up to me and as I rolled down the window, called me ‘Reverend’. I don’t know how or why it happened, but I replied with ‘Thank you for slowing me down - I was lost in thought’. He nodded, looked at my license and gave it back. He then said - I shit you not - ‘That’s OK, Reverend. Just next time’ - he leaned in my window and tapped my speedometer- ‘be thinking about this’. I almost died with relief… and I kept that parking sticker on the car for fucking years.
The first time my Mum took me to a hairdresser, she warned me beforehand that the lady talked non-stop. Throughout the cut, the hairdresser didn’t say a word. I don’t go regularly, but 50 years later that is still mostly my experience. I’m like a coffee break for Hair stylists