Fellow Barber charges $85 for a shave and haircut. For that price, a blow-job better be included. For all the put--upon, pretend, poser, wanna-be piss-elegant pretentiousness implied with such a price-point,-! I am peeved as pissed that the authentic OG's on 6th Street that ran the SF Barber College have been run out of the neighborhood so these jcat jackdaws can jerk off the consumer with fake bro'mance overtures. Since I grew up and got over myself, I haven't paid more than $16 for a haircut. No man should.
Flashback--
Bellevue WA circa 1991. I am a teenager wracked with affluenza before there was a name for the term used to describe a sense of entitlement that comes from being raised to want for nothing. There was something ill-fated in the subtext of what I heard bandied about in the adults' scuttlebutt with the terms, "used to the finer things in life". It was no secret that they were talking about me and the other privileged offspring of my parent's peer group. They meant to be funny but I was left with a sense of foreboding about the future.
From the ages of 11-17, I mostly had my haircut in a stripmall salon chain called Command Performance. Awash in orange overtones still existing from the autumn harvest decor scheme that proliferated through the 1970s, the place wasn't exactly on the pulse of hot trends coming down the line in the 1980s but for a pre-teen it was still an acceptable place to get a haircut. I considered myself lucky enough for merely avoiding Supercuts. I had overheard words like "chop-shop" and horrific accounts described by a kid in my carpool that seemed too preposterous for me to believe. "They don't even blow dry your hair," he said.
By the time I was well into my teens and halfway through high school, my humble gratitude was replaced with obstinacy and then indignation after feeling insulted over my mother's reluctance to pay for my haircuts what she paid for her own. I had outgrown the declasse Command Performance that reminded me of neighborhood developments I saw littered throughout parts of Bellevue that hadn't kept up with the march of progress. With names like Lake Hills or Chevy Chase, that played on the exclusivity and dream of domestic bliss prevalent in post-war America, the bloom was clearly off the rose by the time I was a kid observing it all from the front seat of my mother's Mercedes. Split level and surrounded by faded beauty bark, they paled in comparison to the sprawling mini-mansions and status symbols I saw in my own neighborhood that wielded prestige based on the star-chitect's or builder's prowess. There was a staleness in the air I attributed to the lack of fresh beauty bark that also served as a litmus test of socioeconomic conditions.
But I digress.
The Fellow Barber marketing campaign is littered with terms like bro and fellow that promise homo social intimacy for the right kind of guy. It's not the kind of place that belongs in the Tenderloin or even Mid-Market which is a trussed up way to say downtown.
The barber shop school on Sixth Street closed its doors as a result of this?
But I digress.
The Fellow Barber marketing campaign is littered with terms like bro and fellow that promise homo social intimacy for the right kind of guy. It's not the kind of place that belongs in the Tenderloin or even Mid-Market which is a trussed up way to say downtown.
The barber shop school on Sixth Street closed its doors as a result of this?
