A Harlem Haircut

I wrote this one a few years ago, but didn't have a place to post it. Here's my story of adventure and pride:



A Harlem Haircut - my experience, by Mike Rosenthal


It all starts with a moment of inspiration.

No, I take that back; it all starts with my hair getting to an uncomfortable length. By most peoples' standards, it's still far shorter than what they're used to, but not as short as I'd like. And not as clean. I digress.



In LA, I have a spot where I get my haircut, every week. It's a modern day barbershop, with music playing, walls covered in magazine tears, and gay hair stylists with tattoos. It's a fun place to spend 30 minutes every week.

But I'm not in LA, I'm in NY, and I want to get my hair cut at an old-school barbershop in Harlem. My friend Thomas lives in Harlem, near 125th street, so we both decide it's a good idea and a moral imperative to get our cuts at the local barbershop. At 11:30 I make the trek north, and meet Thomas at the corner of Lexington and 125th St, arguably a 'sketchy' part of town. The corner is a circus of activity - a large group of people sit on a pile of shopping carts, some with hair nets, others with showercaps. It looks like an urban bazaar - a large selection of items that appear to have been salvaged from the garbage are now arranged for sale on the sidewalk. Items include: 1 bra, VHS tapes of Jean Claude Van Dam, an NFL jacket for an 8 year old, a Tshirt that was used as a mechanic's rag, and a great selection of bootleg CDs of neighborhood hip-hop hopefulls.

We stroll past the outdoor swapmeet, and nearly walk past the barbershop - it's that small. There are probably 4 people standing outside, blocking the entrance, but when they find out we want cuts, the gentlemen inform us that they are in fact the barbers and are quick to claim us as their patrons, hereby preventing the other barbers from stealing our business.

Now when I began this quest, I had a certain image in my mind - a barbershop playing some old jazz or hip hop, some crotchity old men inside complaining about today's youth, and a good old fashioned trim and shave. Electric clippers on the top, and I want the straight razor shave with the hot towel, the banter, and all the character of Harlem.

Inside is pandemonium, which is funny as the entire shop is no larger than 200 square feet. In the back are 3 ladies getting weaves and the 3 stylists applying the weaves. In the middle is a man getting an 80s fade, a baby with no shirt and sagging pants, and a pile of African drums sitting 4 feet high. I think the drums take up half of the floor space.

The two guys up front immediately begin to argue. The closest to the door has claimed me, and the guy second from the door isn't happy about this. He's already at work on Thomas's head, which bobs back and forth from the jutting, haphazard stabs with the electric clippers. It looks anything but comfortable. Thomas's barber, who's name I can't remember but I'll call Stan, insists that he's a professional barber, and that he offers a higher quality of service than the others. The other barber, MY barber, is appropriately named Mike. No joke. So Mike tells Stan that he has more refined skills, and is in fact not a barber but a hair stylist - he has copious amounts of style. They then proceed to rattle off the names of famous people who have sat on their chairs - Mr. T, Ol Dirty Bastard, Three Six Mafia, to name a few..

Mike's chair opens up, and it's my turn to get the royal treatment. I repeat my request for electric clippers on top, and a good shave of the face. He emphatically tells me I'm going to get the best service ever, from the best "international hair stylist".



I say "do you have any idea what you're doing?" ...and then out loud I say "great."



I sit in the chair, and he begins to buzz my hair. I asked him for a "metal 1 and a half", which is the guard that gives me my desired hair length. He pauses, clearly confused, and says "oh don't worry, I know which one is right for your head". I worry.


He picks through a small bag of guards, pulls out a plastic red one, and goes to work. Oddly enough, it's actually the right size, and I'm starting to have more confidence in Mike - maybe he really is an "international hair stylist". The haircut goes well - he has good form with the clippers, and seems to cut everything evenly. Thomas's guy is talking loudly on the cell phone while he finishes cutting hair, and at one point he even leaves the shop to talk to someone outside, leaving Thomas in the chair.


So the haircut is done, and it's time for the shave. Now, I've never done this before, and the only frame of reference I have is what I've seen on TV and in the movies. I picture a man with a waxed moustache, a white apron, bald head, and a razor sharp enough to split a hair in half. Instead, I have a sweaty, loud, "international hair stylist" with a pack of disposable razors, not even Bic. He reminds me of 'Tyrone' the homeless guy from "In Living Color". I'm already in the chair, he's already applied the shaving gel with his fingers - I'm committed to this now, but I'm starting to regret it already.

Mike proceeds to tell me how he's going to shave down first, with the hair, then up against the grain to get a good smooth shave. It all sounds good in theory, and he goes to it.




Everything goes well until he gets to my neck.



Somewhere along the way, the shaving gel has disappeared, and now he just uses a spray bottle of rubbing alcohol. He forgets to go with the grain on my neck, and goes straight to against-the-grain. With each stroke, my eyes tense up, my face squirms, and my neck cries in agony. This is not going to be good.


A few painful minutes later, my neck is good and bloody, and the neck muscles hurt because there's no headrest, so my head has been flopping around.


Now it's time for the recovery, and Mike tells me (nervously) that this isn't a big deal, and always happens a little bit. My neck looks like a scene from a horror movie, bleeding profusely. MORE ALCOHOL, Mike thinks, and sprays me down again. OUCH.

Then he takes the brush covered with talc, and brushes that on. My neck is now a strange mix of blood, alcohol, and talc. It's a talcahol mess.

About 15 minutes later, he gets the bleeding to stop enough to get me out of the shop, but my entire neck is powder white from the many applications of talc. It looks like I ate a powdered donut with my chin. I hand him the whole $17 for both spa-worthy treatments, and head home.




Now a few days later, the cuts have healed, the talc has long since washed away. The hair has re-grown on my neck, and the red bumps have settled. Do I regret going to Harlem for a cut and a shave? Not at all. I got to experience a true international hair stylist, and the trip home was possibly the only time I was given ample personal space on the subway. Next time, however, I think I'll find a Dominican for the shave.

Street Style?

I have to say that one overwhelming part of fashion week is the fashion blog explosion. EVERYONE has a fashion blog, and EVERYONE is on the street taking pictures of people and fashion they think are interesting. They say art and beauty is in the eye of the beholder - well some of the beholders are coming off the rails.

I'll give you an example:


I went to this african drum class (yes, african drum class) in the Marais, and walked out with my sweaty gross workout regalia. I was wearing a black tank top, soaked with sweat, light blue nylon exercise shorts, orange socks from the day before, and the easiest footwear to take on and off - my awesome Esquivel leather boots.


I stepped out into the cool Parisian air, and was almost immediately approached by a guy and girl team, telling me in decent English that they're doing a project on street style and they'd like to take my picture. Confused and embarrassed, I agreed, and as the photographer raised his camera he said over and over "great style, great style".


WHAT??



Is this what "stylish" has come to?



I can put together the most uncoordinated outfit - LITERALLY - soaked in sweat, and this is stylish.



People have lost sight of style and the idea of originality. Now, the most obnoxious, unmatched, bizarre outfit is what people aspire to wear. Just look at any of the hipster photo blogs - blue socks, red pants, white glasses, ironic vintage tshirt, grandpa sweater, and shoes purchased from ebay. The funny thing is that people with no real eye for style or fashion are now fashionable by default - their inability to match puts them on top.

I bet it helps if you're color-blind.


In fact, Stevie Wonder would be the most fashionable dude on the block, were he to roam the streets today.

Dior SS2011

The Dior Spring/Summer 2011 show was a couple of days ago.

How does one describe brilliance?

The set is a worn boat dock, reminiscent of WWII, and the runway is elevated and rusted metal. The space is late to fill, as everyone rushes from across town through the light rain. Then, all at once, the tent is packed to the gills, with an amazing Paris-only crowd. A guy in a leather-daddy village people outfit on one side, Kate Moss on the other. The press photographers fight and climb over each other to get pictures of Kate, and 2 security guards are stationed, holding hands, directly in front of Anna Wintour and Grace Coddington, shielding them from the hord.

The mass of runway photographers form a hornets nest, each with just enough room for their lens to poke out, some on ladders, others crouched to the ground. They fill the designated space to critical mass. A number of the photographers start yelling every time someone in the front row of seats crosses their legs, or leans forward - any movement blocks their view.

The lights go dark, and all that is lit is the nautical set in the far recess of the runway. The old wooden posts are lit with a dim blue, and the sound of the ocean booms through the speakers as liquid nitrogen is released, instantly turning into a rolling smoke that looks more like crashing waves of water. Fans coax the water along the runway, and between the front row of legs. It's beautiful.

Then the music starts and the show begins.

It's spectacular to me to see so much creativity crammed into one 10 minute presentation. From the clothes, the way the girls walk, the hair and makeup, the lighting, the set, and of course the music. A custom mix booms through the tent, and completes the teleportation effect of the show - I feel like I'm on a different planet. David Bowie's voice is surgically attached to a beat that moves through your body and every piece of this incredible puzzle is so carefully crafted and controlled.

The clothes are too perfect, and too numerous to even touch on. The many girls complete their walk, do the finale, then return backstage as the runway goes dark.

Being a Dior show, so everyone knows there is one last critical piece of the puzzle - John Galliano.

The docks are once again lit, the sound of the ocean echos, and the waves of smoke come to life again, as the music comes back with force. A single silhouette appears on the runway, with the cherry glow of a cigarette. The lights turn on and it's John, taking control of the runway, walking with more attitude and charisma than all of the models put together. He's in full vintage sailor regalia, and his braided pigtails stem from his vintage hat. He walks, stops, hits two poses to an explosion of applause and cheers, then retreats back up the runway to the backstage.

10 minutes of creative concentrate. Beyond inspiring.

And that's Dior - today John returns with his namesake line, Galliano. I'm excited already.

Here there here there...

I've been living on planes.

NY fashion week was a blast but EXHAUSTING. The blizzard hit the night I landed, and apparently I was on the last flight from LAX>JFK for 2 days. It was ridiculous.

The next morning I awoke to nearly completely white-out conditions. Schools were closed, streets were empty, and Central Park was full.

Snowball fights, snowmen, snow angels, snowboarding. WHAT?

Yes, snowboarding in Central Park.

And not just one, many. Groups of boarders with full gear walked into the park, found the largest hill or rock, and climbed up. Strapped on the board, took off down the hill, did the jump, and repeat.

Sure, it was a short run. Sure it was probably pretty dangerous. But shit, how fun is that??

So I'm in LA now, and it's considerably warmer. I enjoyed some sun at the beach, and have been catching up on sleep.

I'm shooting Tori Spelling's 3rd book cover on Wednesday (did the first 2), and then I get to start packing. Again.

Of course I can't complain - I'm going to Paris. But until then, I'm certainly enjoying sleeping in.

944 "On the Verge"

Here's a behind the scenes, and link to shots I did for 944 Magazine's "On the Verge"

We had some great talent - Dave Franco, Luke Grimes, and Haley Bennett

It was POURING, but the Levi's house kept us comfortable, and everyone rocked it.

http://www.944.com/articles/on-the-verge-944-hangs-out-with-the-ones-to-watch-in-2010/

show in Monte-Carlo

I contributed a few pieces to this show in Monte-Carlo

New 944 story

January 944

Jennifer McManis (LA Models) rocked.

Patrick Tumey and Will Carillo killed it with makeup and hair

Lia Davis brought sick garbs as usual.