Apr
3
The Best Haircut You’ve Never Had
Filed Under travel
If you ever find yourself a little shaggy in the Sunshine State, may I suggest a trip to the Mecca of barbershops. Bug your slab to the Roma 6 Hairstylists on Sunrise Boulevard in Fort Lauderdale and ask for Rocco. This was my good fortune on a chilly day in early February of this year, shortly after my arrival in Florida for Super Bowl XLI.
When I left PHL it was something like 30 degrees, balmy for February but still cool enough to allow for reasonable hair cioffage. My “do” was getting really long but there had been virtually no humidity for months so a little butch wax kept me looking reasonably well groomed. When we touched down in Florida, however, the temperature hit the mid-80s and so did my hairstyle. The outrageous tropical humidity sent my look from slicked-back hipster to suburban rapist in seconds. It was frightening.
As soon as I checked into the hotel I decided to get directions from the concierge and walk to the nearest tonsorial artist. I had no idea what I was in for. I grinned as I walked past the spinning barber pole in the little strip mall across from the Galleria Mall. Inside were several happy patrons being groomed by a pleasant staff lead by a man who was clearly the boss of the operation.
Rocco Testa is a throwback. He’s old school. A ball breaker. He’s from an era when men were men and the straight razor ruled. He manages his staff and customers in a precision ballet of grunts and gestures, snips and clips. He’s the man and he’s good.
I didn’t ask for him but when it came time for my cut, he told me to get into the chair and so I did. He seemed to embrace me and my fright wig as a his own personal and professional challenge. And it became the finest haircut of my life.
His shop is decorated will all sorts of Italian tackle. Near the entrance, a poster of the Italian Championship Soccer Team, wedged in one corner of his mirror, a postcard of a Ferrari and plastered above the cash register, a pizza parlor placard with a big pepperoni pie. A small nameplate reads “Rocco di Roma”.
As I nestled into the chair, Rocco grabbed his four foot Italian flag and gave it a sharp snap, scattering the stubborn clippings of a previous client. He tied the pole-end of the flag snugly around my neck and I could feel the cool brass grommets.
I told Rocco to do whatever he wanted to do, short of shaving it all off. He asked, “How long since-a-you last cut?” He guessed 6 months and I told him eight. As I explained that the Florida humidity had rendered my current cut inoperable he assured me that his vision was excellent for an older man and that I should concentrate on not disturbing the maestro.
Rocco proceeded to administer the finest haircut ever, complete with the showmanship of hand claps, grand gestures, soothing balms and hot foam. I sucked on my fear of straight razors as he sharply removed the suds and underlying stubble. My jugular was spared. In fact, there was no discomfort of any kind. When he began trimming my goatee with electric clippers I started laughing. This kind of service for fourteen bucks made me giddy.
He loosened the flag and finished up with a talc brush around the neckline and then did that cool thing with two mirrors where you can see the back of your head. I love that.
As I rose from the hot-seat, Rocco pointed out the wads of hair that had comprised my previously scary-ass wig. I told him that this had been a religious experience and that no one else could ever cut my hair again. He joked that I was good for another 8 months. It may be longer if I don’t get to Florida again.