The barbershop is sort of sacred place for men. We want a little pampering and grooming, but it must not look like we want it. Which is why your average barbershop is far less inviting looking that a comparable hair salon, which focuses more on female clientele.

The whole process is very an erotic experience – especially when done with as many fashioned implements as possible, especially straight razors. A good barber will trim and shape my beard, shave my neck and upper cheeks, clip my eyebrows, cut out any longish hairs growing from my ears (yes – I am reaching that age), and finish the back of my neck with a razor. He or she will also, of course, cut my hair.

There was a wonderful barber – a woman – in Pennsville, New Jersey, just across the bridge from Wilmington and Philadelphia. For a pittance (a little as $10) she would do the whole deal. And that included applying a straight razor to my face, which is a sometimes frightening, but also exhilarating experience. Of course, it helped that back then, I was simply getting my head buzzed down to stubble, which was my way of accepting the fact that I was beginning to lose my hair (it seemed more dignified to just run with it than to try to hide it – which I am still at pains to balance).

In the basement of  the Rayburn House Office Building in the U.S. Capitol Complex resides Joe’s the barber. There are actually three barbers there – old Italian Joe, the middle aged black man, and the young Asian man. You would think that Joe would be the best. And indeed, nothing quite completes the image of the barber shop experience like having an old Italian man do the job for you (I would also include old Cuban men and old Puerto Rican men). What that image leaves out, however, is that Joe isn’t terribly concerned about what you think of his work unless you are at least a congressman. The young guy is sweet, but I’d be lying if I said I had complete faith in his skills. No – I would suggest trying to get the black man to do your hair.

Lately, I’ve been bouncing between two places in downtown. One is the quintessential old man’s club. A coterie of aging warhorses come in there for their monthly visits. It’s classic, but I can’t help but feel that I am seen as an interloper in a world of after dinner brandies and camel hair jackets. The other place is Jose’s – but my barber is actually an officious Chinese woman. She’s fast, she’s a completist, and she remembers her customers.