Chicago’s in San Francisco
I found Chicago’s Barbershop a month back while walking down Divisadero. I was drastically in need of a good fade.
Peering in, I saw barbers with nicely pressed white coats sculpting masterpieces with their combs and clippers chattin’ up a storm with their male compatriots.
There were men sitting like kings in black leather and chrome chairs with capes gentle splayed over their laps. Other men were laying back, chin in the air, while the barbers swiftly razed their necks free of their sophomoric beards.
I love getting my haircut — the ritual, the shop talk, the trust.
The buzz of the clippers, the snipping of the scissors, the edging of razors. The intricate dance of sharp objects scooting across your head shaving away those tensile strands of black and gray.
It’s a place like no other, where men exchange stories and talk about the game of life. Or talk about our dreams and our relationships. It’s a proving ground for being able to carry a conversation, it’s a place where you not only shed your hair but you shed whatever woes you had that day.
How could the blend of hair and cutting makes one feel so masculine — it’s enigmatic.
