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Haircuts in my family were traumatic, psychologically scarring events. Michael, as the salon’s owner was called, or with his No. Well, maybe science fiction: It sprung from her fertile imagination like that creature in Alien .
Since the final result was hairlessness, he didn’t see why he couldn’t save lots of time-not to mention his mental health-by simply plugging in a razor. I can’t exaggerate the exhaustion for all involved in going to Michael’s.Unfortunately, the lights didn’t go out until our haircuts were finished and we were leaving.I was sorry when I learned that Michael’s, the well-known children’s hair-cutting salon at Madison Avenue and 90th Street, went out of business recently. Michael’s was famous for cutting the hair of generations of preppies, allegedly including John F. I got my first haircut at Michael’s, and every haircut after that until, at the ripe old age of 16, I finally rebelled. It was like nothing that existed in nature, or even in science fiction. And, God knows, I spent enough of my childhood in the barber’s chair at Michael’s that I’d have run into him if he’d been a regular. First, there was the hair style she’d invented for us.
Instead, she insisted that we be trimmed to a state of virtual baldness-except in the front, where we all sported Tom Sawyer–like cowlicks-with a scissors.To keep our hair just so required that we visit Michael’s religiously every two weeks. Gay, a pleasant man with a business-like mustache-until he crossed my mom. So much importance did my mother attach to our appearance (and to our hair in particular), and so completely were we Mr.