Renee's

Last time I paid for a haircut, I was laughed out of the salon. I’m going bald (slowly—there’s still some good years left, ladies), and had made the unfortunate mistake of covering my peak with an early-Beatles shag, hiding its recession from all eyes, including my own. I asked Jennifer, the hairstylist at the outlet mall to make me look like an E.R.-era George Clooney, who for those of you unfamiliar with 90s TV looks like a Roman Empire-era Julius Cesar. Trimmer in hand, Jennifer complied, at the end of the process leaving me not only balder than when I started but with an uneven peak that made me look like I’d been hit on the top of the dome with a baseball bat. When I asked her to shave the other side so the ‘do would look even, Jennifer laughed.

I’d never been derided by a hairstylist before, and I haven’t since, because from that day on I’d gone DIY, giving myself a 50’s “Buzz” with a Wahl Clip’N Trim, which is a powerful, if not entirely delicate, means of haircuttery. This continued for over a year, until I was tending bar at Meconi’s Pub and Eatery when Renee of Renee’s Salon walked in and ordered a beer.

At this point, I was sporting a more rugged version of the Clooney I’d asked of Jennifer, albeit with about a six-day beard to round out the edges. After some idle chitchat (Renee’s something of a regular), she eyed my ‘do with a concerned look, and after a pregnant pause, informed me that it was “Industry day” tomorrow, and I could get the full Renee’s treatment for around 20 dollars, which I assumed must have been a substantial discount.

The next day, I wandered down to Pacific Avenue to try to find Renee’s. It was difficult, and I was stranded at a traffic light when I saw her walking down ninth street with the sun in her California blonde hair and a little lapdog at her leash. She invited me to the Fireman’s Park to help Mi Shu do her business, and soon after we were back at her salon to let the haircuttery begin.

After giving me a trim that left the conical nature of my head more understated and the billowing plooms of sidelocks held better in check, Renee moved on to my beard, an eight-day affair that crept down from my sideburns onto my lower neck. She trimmed off the neck hair, leaving me with a well-kept beard, then asked if I wanted the rest shaved off.

She suggested chops, and the results were just hilarious enough to keep:



Renee offered me a discount if when she walked into the bar that night I was still sporting my Ambrose Burnsides. After several minutes of waffling I conceded, and have since oddly received numerous compliments on my ridiculous hypermasculine facial sculpture.

On my way out, I asked if bikers and tattoo artists came into her salon asking her to help them look the way they did, and she said yeah. It’s too hard to do something like that yourself, I guess. Interesting think-piece material: Hardcore guys and their attachment to the girly “creative” types (be they sexed male or female) who actually have the artistic skill to rend them as menacing as they sometimes look. Further thought: Is the tattoo and the piercing and the long hair still a commitment to self-mutilation and therefore “taking a stand,” or simply too conformist and specific in its message to mean anything at all?