The Unspoken Code of Peace at Rick’s Barbershop
Midway to the ocean along Geary Boulevard lies a one room, two chair monument to decency known as Rick’s Barbershop. Rick, the Philipino barber who’s been cutting men’s hair for generations there, is a man of few words who’s generous with his gentle smile. His partner, César, says even less. A simple menu on the wall lets you know you’ll need $14 for a cut (up from $12 ten years ago). When you finally sit down in one of the two chairs, you won’t need to give much direction either. “Short” or “no fade” is more than enough. Rick and César know what to do, and they do it right.
I say “finally” because, either due to an endless stream of 5 star Yelp reviews or old-fashioned word of mouth, Rick’s is popular. Quite popular. No matter how early I struggle to get myself and my kids there (and despite the Playboys, GQ’s and Maxims in the rack, Rick and César seem to like kids), there’s invariably a line of guys ten deep outside.
Yet, there exists a fascinating phenomenon I’ve dubbed “Rick’s Code”. At Rick’s, nobody ever groans at the line… or even forms a line. When men get there, they seem to instinctively notice who’s already there. They stand politely outside, keeping male-standard distances between themselves, studying their phones or the sidewalk, for as long as it takes. Rick and César also magically know who’s next to get cut, and genially wave them onto the throne, one by one.
When it’s your turn to get cut at Rick’s, you know it. Nobody needs tell you when your turn comes, and nobody, ever, would suggest it wasn’t. Relax!
I’d argue getting a good haircut, for a man, is as strong a testosterone-driven instinct as any other; but an invisible Bubble around Rick’s puts the usual side effects of this hormone in stasis.
- No one hurries.
- No one gets angry.
- No one feels cheated.
Yesterday, I waited an hour and a half to put my kids under Rick’s clippers, but the guy behind me mentioned softly that even after moving to San Bruno, he still gets up early on a Saturday, to be perfectly contented by a two-hour wait.
Occasionally, a woman will bravely bring her boy to get cut here. Alone in a sea of men, she might (understandably) be uncomfortable. Once again though, Rick’s Bubble seems to bring out the best impulses in men. Any loose Playboys will be subtly slipped under today’s Chronicle or behind a chair. Patrons will offer her one of the three wait-room seats, and even pass her fidgety kid their phone to play games on.
If only some scientist would come to Rick’s, and analyze the air, the sidewalk outside, or the chairs. Maybe study the sharpness of the steel that shaves each neck? Or the cycle speed of the massager Rick rolls over your shoulders as your session winds down, in the red high-backed chair…
What otherworldly chemical is at work here? Imagine Kickstarting it. Shipping it far and wide. Air dropping it in war-torn places. We’ll call it: Rick’s Tonic for World Peace.
That’s worth a two hour wait.
