She’s a Replicant, isn’t she?
My boyfriend is, shall we say, selective when it comes to choosing a place to get his hair cut. It’s a thing.
Anyway, based on a friend’s recommendation, he and I trundled on over to Blade Runners in the Haight today. I sat around silently recommending the client in the chair directly opposite me go an entirely different direction with her hair (sadly, she did not heed my psychic warning), and admiring the singular quality of all the stylists employed at said establishment.
If Suicide Girls opened a hair salon, this would be it. With the exception of one finely coiffed gentleman, every single stylist in the place was a heavily tattooed psychobilly/punk/indie/goth girl with either red, black, blue or white hair (or some combination of the four). It was spectacular, I tell you. And, surliness aside, my boyfriend’s stylist kicked hair.
You must understand: Should the Michelin Guide begin reluctantly doling out stars for hair salons, my dude would be the fiercest critic on their roster. For those of you who don’t have a Bronwyn-to-English decoder ring, alls I’m sayin’ is, he’s a picky motherfucker. So “it’s good, I guess,” as a response to “do you like your haircut” was high praise indeed.
Except for the aforementioned woman who asked her stylist to “make me beautiful” and then insisted he do nothing more than give her a trim, everyone looked pretty pleased with the service. And by fancy haircutting standards, their prices don’t suck, either.