If you were to ask my sister, the first word she'd use to describe me is snob. Well, maybe now that my life is a lot more glitter and shirtless selfies she might say homo...but then certainly snob. I don't actually think I'm a snob, just more of a discerning palette than most. If there was ever someone that embodied the $30,000 millionaire it would this kid. My money is my money and while I spend it quickly, I spend it on what I want. The funny thing is, the more money I make...the less money I spend. Back in the day I would literally spend my entire Friday paycheck buying drinks for everyone in the bar...1/2 of whom I didn't know and 1/2 I didn't like. These days, I don't "ball out of control" quite as much but there are several things I enjoying spending money on.
1) Hotels - to me, spending money on a hotel is not only about quality (I don't do anything less than a 4 star at this point) it's about quantity...I stay at hotels in Tucson every weekend even though I live here. Hotels to me are teeny tiny little vacations that come with teeny tiny little shampoos and not so teeny tiny drinks by the pool.
2) Food - a good meal is worth every penny. My grandfather is one of those people you'd see with his plate full of food. Meat next to salad next to dessert. "It's all going to the same place" is his mantra when it comes to food and while that it true, I enjoy meals with style, flair and presentation. My family would say that they could cover up the names of the food on the menu and I would make my order based on price...because I always seem to order the most expensive thing on the menu...it is not my fault my favorite steak is a fillet and my favorite drink is Cristal.
3) My face - while you don't see me everyday at work (yet, Mario Lopez best watch his back) skin regiments are something I can't spare expense on because nobody spares your feelings on judging your face. I grew up with a mother who would NEVER leave the house without makeup on. Even if she just thew some mascara on and then doubled her lipstick as blush (cuz she did that all the time) she was always put together when she went out. When I was 10 I quickly learned that vanity is a learned trait when I arrived home to discover my grandmother with this Jason Vorhees hockey mask looking thing giving herself shock wrinkle therapy.
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| Grandma-ma is that you? |
This blog though is dedicated to something I bet you think I don't care about...my hair. Now, my hairline...much like my love life...is deteriorating at a vastly rapid pace as each passing day of my sad single life wages on...oh...yea...I'm talking about my hair...gotta keep on track
Growing up in a military family, short haircuts were not only essential, they were expected. If I went more than 2 weeks without a haircut my grandfather would ask my parents if I was a "hippie". Now the barber I grew up with sadly died so the search for a new barber was harsh. I started going to salons which one would think I would enjoy (including the one where the gay hairdresser used to give 16 year old me white wine to drink while getting my herr did) but alas, it was not enjoyable. Why am I paying $45 every two weeks for some homo to run a razor up the side of my head while listening to women BITCH BITCH BITCH BITCH BITCH about EVERYTHING in their lives. Um no, I think I'll take a rain cheque thanks!
So then I resorted to the exact opposite of the spectrum...FREE HAIRCUTS. Between my best friend and my mother both attending beauty school, the need for practice came with as many free haircuts as I'd like. The problem? Well, let's just say you don't learn how to cut hair overnight.
It took a while, but I finally found the best haircut in Boston...IN DA HOOD. Now, when I say the hood I don't mean some sort of less "Barbershop" and more "BlueHillAveShop". But what you don't understand is...these guys give THE BEST HAIRCUTS. From crazy ass lines in the side of my head to a straight razor shave that would last me 3 weeks, I was thrilled with the quality of my haircut for a pittance.
So I quickly made the deduction that GHETTO NEIGHBORHOOD = GOOD HAIRCUT ... a lesson that would prove to be a dangerous one which is why I don't do math.
The good thing about living in Tucson is that every neighborhood is a bad one so I figured I would have no problem getting a good haircut. But you know what I quickly learned...you can easily get a bad haircut in a bad neighborhood!! So for months I went to several different barrios (read: spanish ghettos) in town and could not find one that gave me a good haircut. Finally, after being on the air on the hip-hop station as Seanye West for enough time, I gained enough confidence to ask people where they recommend. One of my friends gives me a card...no address...no last name...just Bobby B and a phone number. He told me that he only accepts texts but told me he's totally worth it.
Me:
Hi Bobby, this is Sean a friend of Joses
Bobby:
Jose who?
Me:
Jose Hernandez
Bobby:
Which Jose Hernandez?
I guess that's a legit question since that name is the John Smith of Tucson
Me:
Jose Hernandez the DJ
Bobby:
You cool?
???? am I cool? Depends who you ask I guess. Now what bothers me about this statement is one that you only get asked that by one of two people. 1) Drug dealers 2) in the closet homosexuals... both are people that require EXTREME amounts of discretion and are a pain to deal with.
Me:
I'm cool
Bobby:
Ok, I'll cut your hair Friday at 6pm. Here's the address
That's EXACTLY how the convo went...it was like the fun house mirror of an appointment. I drive by the address on my way home from work on Wed and it is a boarded up old barber shop...I'm nervous.
I ask my friend at work if this guy is legit and he reassured me that it was the right address and I'd understand on Friday. He told me that if Bobby was going to cut my hair, I must have been cool. WHAT THE FUCK IS IT WITH THIS TOWN AND BEING COOL?! I want a haircut not an exclusive interview with Britney Spears.
Friday rolls around and I am sort of nervous...what if I'm not cool enough? what if he starts cutting my hair and thinks I'm a DEA narc? What if I get in there and it's a set-up and Jose is in on it because they want to eliminate competition for dj's....what if it looks like this?
I text Bobby again because...well...there is no door. It's just an iron curtain.
Me:
Hi Bobby, it's Sean. Just wondering how to get into the barber shop
Bobby:
Go around the back. Be cool.
So around the back of this derelict I go and it's EXACTLY how I imagined it. This place is a Latin Kings territory and the back of the barber shop isn't even a barber shop!! There are Mexicans with neck tattoos lifting weights, Mexicans showing off stabbing scars playing cards, Mexicans with their guns on the table playing pool...and ME. You remember me? 26 year old white boy with a tendency to wear my underwear in public? Oh yea.
So I say hello to Bobby and he's REALLY NICE! He's starts asking me about my job...the radio station...how Jose is and all of the barbers are having a good time. I listen carefully for the word maricon to be used in their quick Spanish talk...nothing. I do hear several people referring to me as wero.
Me:
Bobby, what does wero mean?
Bobby:
It means light skinned Mexican
Me:
I'm not Mexican
Bobby:
Yea, I told them you were so they'd know you were cool
Me:
I dont speak Spanish
Bobby:
Don't worry, just be cool
OH SURE NO PROBLEM...I'll just be the cool light skinned Mexican that doesn't speak Spanish...I'll blend right in.
All of sudden 6pm hits (I was few minutes early) and the place turns into a fucking fiesta! The guys start playing loud music...everyone starts dancing and I have NO IDEA what's going on. I get nervous that this is their sacrificial "death of the wero" ritual but then Bobby joins in on the fun. The guys in the back room come out with food, beer and weed...I'm STILL in the chair with half my hair shaven off and a smock around my neck....I sat there for 30 min waiting for Bobby to enjoy his Tecate and spliff.
What the hell does that mean? The music changes and I quickly realized my barbershop/gym/casino/bar...was now turning into a STRIP CLUB. From the back of the building come the two UGLIEST WOMEN I have ever seen. Now, this isn't my area of expertise and anyone can tell you that but I know what level things should be at and where there should and shouldn't be visible scars. They are grinding up against the barbers, the customers, the other random guys hanging out...I felt like I was in a Daddy Yankee music video starring Mama June...HORRIFYING.
Ahhh Tucson...if you can survive here, you can survive anywhere
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