A hairy tale

I've just now gotten back from my haircut at one of the most interesting barber shops I've ever been to, a dandy's paradise called Freemans Sporting Club. Freemans is actually a men's clothier; I asked how much a made-to-measure suit goes for and was told, "about $3000." For that princely sum, they'll make you a suit that fits like a glove, from virtually any material, including deadstock wool manufactured in the 1950s. But I'm just here to get my hair cut, and the barbershop is in the back of the store. The haircuts are much, much cheaper than the suits.

Freemans Barbershop looks like it was built in the 1920s (to see what I mean, check out a picture here), but it wasn't. It's only eleven months old, so the whole place is anachronistic. The barber chairs were made in the 1920s, but there's a 21st century stereo system playing rock n' roll on a window sill. There's a rack of this month's men's magazines (GQ, Details, Esquire) by the waiting bench, but there's also a secret stash of Penthouse issues from the 1970s under the bench. The amply tattooed barber is an amiable 30-something chap who is privy to the latest in technology -- he's looking to import a hot new Japanese hair product into New York -- but wears a porkpie hat and uses a straight razor. And his name is Shorty. It says so on his business card.

How was the haircut? Quick, unfussy, and nuanced; Shorty knows his stuff. I'll be going back, but next time, I'll bring my own reading material.