I managed to procrastinate Porter’s first haircut long enough for his mullet to reach it’s full Trans-Am-driving-Scorps-listening-leather-moccasin-boot-wearing maturity. And although his father would be ever so proud for this to be his lifetime achievement, I knew it was time. And can I say that men and haircuts? Are you kidding me? It is like nothing I have ever witnessed in my life. There is no complimentary beverage. There is no pile of Glamour Magazines. There are no shampoo basins, or endless wall of product. There is no long and convoluted description of that haircut you saw last week on that one show, where you want it, but longer, and blonde. Un-uh. No, you are asked a simple question: Boy’s haircut? As I glanced around this place with it’s wall-to-wall taxidermy museum, and webbed lawn chairs, and the man in the opposite chair having hair VACUUMED FROM HIS SHIRT, and the gigantic lettering that reads ‘Haircut: $12’, I realize that this is the anti-salon. This is like if you took a salon and tent-bombed it with testosterone. Then decorated it straight out of 1961. And left it that way. Forever.

Little surprise when Porter left there with his hair smelling like Old Spice and looking like Dennis the Menace.

(click photo to see full set)