family affair

I am sick of my favorite punk-rock barbershop being all clogged up with families! God! This is the third time I've been in there and had to wait behind toddlers -- toddlers!! -- who are too young to even appreciate their punk-rock barber, brought in by aging, hipster parents who don't seem to know what else to do with their little brats but send them to school with cool hair. Jesus.

Today it wasn't just toddlers, it was also a whole creepy family, led by an old, pot-bellied hippie guy with shoulder-length, greasy, surfer hair, who seemed to be showing off his cool, punk-rock barbershop to his elderly parents who both just stood and stared blankly at the posters on the walls as dissonant indie rock music blasted from wall speakers and drowned out anything any of them said.

Please, people, two rules: rule number one, until your kid can pay for his or her own punk-rock haircut, don't waste my time by dragging him or her into my barbershop and making me wait while he or she pitches a fit and refuses to sit in the chair while you beg and plead and cajole and threaten and try and bribe and whatever else. You're being ridiculous. Pay eight bucks at supercuts if you *must* take your toddler to a professional. Or just cut it at home. Or let it grow, who cares. Just stay out of Rudy's on Division, please.

And rule number two: Barbershops are for haircuts, not freakin sightseeing. Don't bring your parents in and make them get haircuts there just to show them how cool you and your town are. You're not cool, you're a loser. And you probably don't even live in town, you probably live in Beaverton or Gresham and you just drive into town every so often and go to Rudy's for a trim so you can *feel* like you're part of something cool. If you lived in town, you'd realize that your weird surfer hair is lame. Don't let me see you, or your poor, hapless parents, back in my barbershop ever again.

There, I feel a little better.