To start, I was offered coffee, iced tea or a beer (Sam Adams or Coors Light), then led to a private room off the main open-plan floor. With a muted color scheme of browns and grays, the midtown location of this men’s club mirrors the professional, mostly middle-aged clientele I joined on a Tuesday morning. After a rinse, Vargas applied Mop Orange Peel molding cream to my hair before sending me off to a dinner date, feeling like a spiffier, shinier man. While savoring the novel sensation of having one’s hair and nails cut simultaneously, I eavesdropped on my fellow customers, who traded tales about high-end Mexican hotels. My shoes were soon removed to be shined, and a manicurist scooted up to my side to clean, sand, moisturize and rub my digits into hand-model-worthy appearance. The staff escorted me to one of several red leather barber chairs and Vargas set to nipping and cutting with scissors.
Next, I was seated at a sink, my head shampooed with Redken Color Extend, then kneaded. After I helped myself to a drink, my hairstylist, Miriam Vargas, conducted a thorough assessment of my preferences, dispelling the quiet desperation that accompanies most of my haircuts. The reception area of this guy-oriented salon-with its flatscreen TVs tuned to football games and open bar stocked with Sixpoint lager and Scotch-says it all: This is a man’s world.
