There’s an old school barber shop in downtown
San Mateo, next door to one of my favorite sushi spots. Peeking in through the front window from the sidewalk, it’s like a blast from the past with the barber shop pole, the dude who gives haircuts with a straight razor, the worn, mismatched chairs, and the porn. Really, really old issues of Playboy, and antique Penthouses, all proudly laid out in the front waiting areas for the customers to … what? Read? Um, “enjoy”?
I’m no prude, don’t get me wrong, but there’s something about public porn consumpiton that strikes me as odd. I mean, despite what people tell you, they’re not just reading Playboy for the ariticles. They’re looking at boobies. And not just for the sure appreciation of the beauty of the human form, but for the benefit of Mr. Peepers. So if the magazines work, if they do the job that they were intended… well, then how comfortable is it for anyone when Joe Customer is summoned to the barbers chair with a pup tent in his pants? How does that conversation play out?
“Hey Joe, you ready for your… Whoa! Dude! Watch where you’re pointing that thing! You need a minute? No? You sure?”
Some things go together naturally. Mac and cheese. Sonny and Cher. But barber shops and porn? I’m thinking not so much…
image from: http://imgs.inkfrog.com/pix/newretro/
eleven bee 