The Billiken's Bluff

Growing up I got my haircut at a place called Steve's Year 2001: The Barbershop of the Future. Seriously.

In high school I read the Great Gatsby, I read Catch 22. I learned about metaphors, similes, symbolism and irony. I realized that a barbershop with a name like Steve's Year 2001: The Barbershop of the Future was just too fantastic, too surreal, too full of meaning, too perfect to be true, and yet it there it was.

2002. I was at NYU taking a fiction writing class. From time to time I still went home to Queens and got my haircut at the barbershop. The name remained. They were late. The future had arrived, 2002. The sign remained unchanged. I was able to spot the irony. I wrote a short story and then another.

Sometimes when I list my hobbies, or discuss what I would like to do, ideally, in life, I say I would like to write a book. And I have this notion that I have already written a significant amount. But when I stop to think about it, other than this blog, the only thing I've written that I'm proud of is this one set of a few short stories.

An excerpt from the first of these-

Al's Year 2001: The Barbershop of the Future: The Author’s Commentary

Jumbo-jet lined trans-Atlantically originating in Athens soaring over oceans and through epochs present and past Towers of Babel, stone creations born of Gibraltar, stopping off at the ruins of Troy, admiring Parthenons great and small, over skyscrapers enormous, landed one Alexander Moulopolos at John F. Kennedy International Airport. He got out in 1978 and with that epic energy of things past, set out filled with architectural audacity to create the next great edifice. Armed with only a few thousand dollars, Alexander found the fertile ground upon which he would build his future: 417th St. and Metropolitan Ave. Alexander felt the Grecian blood flow strong through his veins, he knew legends, he felt greatness, this would be great! Relying entirely upon the strength of his own labor, he laid the foundation, mixed the cement, bought fluorescent lighting, mirrored the walls, parqueted the floors, and installed five state-of-the-art barber chairs. The only thing left was to come up with a name that was as leviathan as his ambition. It came to him one night in a dream as if mandated by God, Himself. He saw the name in a flash of lightening that boomed like thunder, and knew it could be nothing other than Al’s Year 2001: The Barbershop of the Future.

August 2005. I still live in Queens, I still get my hair cut at the same barbershop.



The sign remains the same intact, despite some graffiti, some tears.



I was at the barbershop last Tuesday. I spotted a business card which read, Steve's Year 3000. The Barbershop of the Future suffix has been dropped. The wheels are in motion. The sign will change. Maybe.

I spoke with the Greek woman cutting my hair. Maria.

She knew my name, somehow. I had never spoken to her before. It really was bizarre. She spoke from a place of knowledge.

She said I didn't look like a George.

I said who said my name is George. But, anyway why don't I look like one?

She said George's are Greek. So many George's come in here for haircuts. You don't look Greek.

I see. They changed the name? Steve's Year 3000?

Yes, but the sign is still the same.

I guess you are all set for another thousand years.

We spoke about Greece. I told her my girlfriend was in Rhodes. She told me her husband is Turkish.

She told me the Turkish have done some terrible things to the Greeks. She said the Greeks and the Turks never got along, still don't get along.

I said it's probably the same with your husband. I smiled.

She laughed. Haha. She cut my hair.