L.A. MAN: Richie the Barber

For a man to be truly a man, that is a classy grown mench full of poise and character, yes, a physical specimen radiating with the strength and air of his masculine soul he must pay attention to his appearance. Not vanity, no sir, and certainly there are toiletries and surgeries, hairplugs and calf implants, whatnot, that should make a man pause and retreat before he begins down the road to obsession with physical appearance. But once we give up all semblance of coiffedness we reduce ourselves to mere beasts, Bonobo monkeys in ill-fitting costumes looking for a fresh turd to throw.

In L.A. the appearance is more importance than elsewhere because it’s a city of illusions and first impressions and like it or not everybody in the Angeles river basin is judged to a certain extent on the outside persona he presents to the world. At the least, a man needs a good barber. But where? Go to some salon where some German with frosted tips can sell you hundreds of dollars of hair treatments after already making you pay a c-note for a buzzcut? And then there are those overpriced shave parlors charging a day’s wages for a straight shave and half a jigger of watered-down scotch catering to bloated fatbacks (THE SHAVE). No, a man needs a barber possessed of true grit and daring, of class and persona, of dependability and appreciation for the working man, the real man, and throw in some motley charm to cement the figure, yes, yes.

There is one such man I know of in Los Angeles. His name is Richie the Barber and he is a true American hero of artistry, individuality, and male grooming.

A 3^rd generation barber, Richie’s covered in tattoos, always sporting a waxed handlebar and a fedora or a bowler or a homburg. When I showed up at his chair in the back of the 264 Customs tattoo parlor the first time, I was told Richie wasn’t available - some crazy bastards were shooting a reality show about him and he had been drinking and he refused to give a man a shave or a cut with booze in his system.

When I returned the next day he greeted with shots of Jack while I waited for him to finish with the man in the chair before me. Richie was shaving the man’s chin into a proper Dickensian mustache/muttonchops combo (some call it a “lemmie”). I talked to a member of the shop crowd, a photographer from Chattanooga, Atlanta, and Africa with stoney red-eyes and a portfolio spanning celebrities and mountain scenics which adorned the walls of the parlor. We discussed artistry, the Dirty South, rock climbing in Chattanooga, struggling in Los Angeles, being a white boy in Africa, and Richie’s growing status among coolies and entertainers, hell the bastard might even have his own reality show soon enough, joining the ranks of grooming and body accoutrement celebrities like Kat Von D. and that hot lesbian personal trainer.

4 shots later I was in the chair. I had 3 months of beard growth about to disappear. On a whim I asked Richie to leave handlebars on mine too, why not ? When in Rome, sure enough. I had another shot before he buzzed up my beard. Then he covered my face in the hot towels and I laid back, meditating, letting my pores open and my hairs push further to the surface. Then he got out the straight razor and meticulously worked my face over, leaving the towel on my eyes as I ignored the feeling of a sharp blade kissing the flesh of my face.  It’s a moment of surreal trust for a stranger, no doubt abetted by the shots of whiskey and Richie’s banter. Hell, the man had a Bill the Butcher tattoo on his calf so there was a level of bloodthirsty decorum which would have already landed him in the big house if he ever felt a rising desire to slice flesh.

After it was over he poured a final shot for me and, since he was off, he poured one for himself too. With my 6^th shot and a perfect cut I left in complete gentlemanly confidence, ready to tackle the world, a true man about town and just classy and dapper enough to seize whatever possibilities life beheld for me. 

Richie the Barber, thank you for being a drop of hope in this city's classlessly overgentrified and under-individualized personal care artisans.  Thank you.