The barbershop is the last refuge of male space, untarnished by female blemish. That is unless there are women cutting hair, in which case the only recourse for the serious man is to high tale it out of there. A woman cutting a man’s hair is like a guy giving blow jobs. It’s somewhat out of place, at least to normal people.

There aren’t many normal people left these days, what with the vast competition of who can be the most conformist freak. Barbershops are a hinterland in this vast colossus of wretchedness where a man can enter and feel at peace. It is also one of the very few places where one can observe hipsters actually working for a living.

A barbershop should have the smell of hair tonic, bourbon and deep aged leather. Tobacco is also a nice additive to the mix of olfactory pleasures. There should be wood paneling and the barber chairs must be throwbacks to the 50s, when men were real men, women were real women, and small furry creatures from Alpha Centuri were small furry creatures from Alpha Centuri*.

In other words, a barbershop is a masculine space. There is no place for women there. Serious haircuts are the norm, whether you are 7 or 70. It is a wonderful place to bring young boys to get a proper haircut. A barber should first and foremost wield a pair of sharp and shiny scissors. The trimmer is only left for the afterthought hatchings. You should be able to get a drink at the barbershop, a real drink, legal or not. A couple of inches of something brown, straight up. They can serve coffee too but that is only for the autistic. You can drink coffee anytime; this kind of place needs a shot of hard Alice.

The music should emanate from a turntable and be from a band that you recognise and haven’t heard in a very long time. The magazines are vintage and naughty, discovered in some forgotten secondhand bookstore where the sad owner was holding them for an artist who wanted to cut them up but the barber rescued them from that fate worse than death.

The chairs are deep and Chesterfield. You need to sink down into them. If you’re in one of the few remaining civilized parts of the world then you’ll be fine cutting and lighting a cigar. But not while the barber is doing his trade on your locks; that sort of thing is uncouth.

No politics should be spoken at the barbershop. We are men and this is our refuge which means we aim to get along, at least for this token time once every month for a few hours. Stretch the pleasure out; don’t just go there when it’s time for your cut. Arrive early, sample a drink or three, chat with those around you, enjoy the ambiance, the camaraderie, the masculinity of the establishment.

Will barbershops be co-opted and subverted and destroyed by the horrible out of control feminist prog horde?

It’s cheap to open a barbershop. Let them rampage. Our doors will always be open.

*Yeah, it’s a quote. So I couldn’t come up with anything better. I know my limitations.

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