I had a hell of a time finding a barber I was happy with after moving back to Houston in 1997. Truth be told, I’d never found one I was happy with before I left Houston in 1988. In those days, Avalon and Times (then in the Village) were my go-tos, and neither were what I remember as great. I sat in the chair of that Mexican-American Avalon barber — the guy with the gigantic Freddy Fender ‘fro was always at Alabama Ice House — a couple of times, and yeah, he was a’ight.
As were the headcutters at Times, but I was never blown away. In fact, American barbers have a really hard time with my head for some reason — I could go in any barbershop in England and leave with a great cut, often as not at the hands of some guy in his 20s and not the veterans I’d known in Houston and Nashville. But never here. After my return, and a litany of bad cuts all over the Inner Loop, I realized that my ex-wife was as good as any of those barbers and she cut my hair for a time, saving me the trouble of the trip and $15.
On moving to the Heights, I gave the venerable Doug’s a chance, and while I loved the ambiance and most of the barbers as people, they still did not get my head right.
Doug’s
I hasten to add that I am cheap in this regard; I’ve gotten great cuts from certain hairdressers over the years, but I have an aversion to paying over $20 for a cut. And I likewise am averse, somewhat, to the procedure itself. No, it’s not a dental visit, but pretty close.
Anywayyyy, an Internet search eventually steered me to Masters Barber Shop, a hidden gem on in and utterly nondescript building on a narrow backstreet very near the Karbach Brewery.
The setting may be humdrum to dismal, but the interior has everything I am looking for in a barbershop. In addition to the standard Playboy magazines in the mens’ room, those of a more scholarly bit can peruse maps from those National Geographics on the shelves. Generally the TV is set to true crime or war movies — seeing the combat scenes from Saving Private Ryan while in a barber’s chair was…something.
But the main attraction is Noe Garcia, the sole proprietor. He’s not expensive, and he’s fast. You can walk into a crowded shop and he’ll clear out the three guys ahead of you in less than half an hour, and then you will get the same treatment: in and out of that chair in less than ten minutes.
But for the first time in a very long time, I came to enjoy the experience, mainly because Noe is so damn funny. One time he related this tale:
Customer to him: My hair is very special to me and it usually takes my stylists at least 30 minutes to cut it right.
Noe to customer: Dude, I could fuck up your hair in 30 minutes as easily as five. You've come to the wrong place if you want a long haircut.
And he once shared with me an account of his upbringing. He has a bunch of siblings, and they were all raised as Jehovah’s Witnesses. At last the baby of the Garcia family turned 18 and moved out of the house, and, within a week or two, his parents summoned them all back home for a family meeting.
“Okay children,” the father said. “We have gathered you all here today because we have an important announcement. We are leaving the Jehovah’s Witnesses. We are now Baptists. Please respect our decision; it was not made easily. And we are overjoyed with our new church and our pastor!”
Stunned silence. And then an uproar, as the entire brood realized they had been cheated of 18 years each of birthday parties and Christmases and then their parents tell them it had all been an act.
“The whole thing was a gift-buying-avoidance scam,” Noe chuckled, shaking his head. “Those assholes!”
And a snip-snap and a razor whine later, he was done.
(Since the pandemic, I’ve been shaving my own head.)
I rememer Pops used to take Joe and I to the Barber College, price was right even if cuts and cutters wildly varied!
I cut your hair once. Gave you a puppy cut.