Milos’ arms are as thick as his tattooed Slavic arms. He’s bald with a beard and wears a leather apron. Most importantly, he’s a damn good barber.
I found him quite by accident. About a year ago, I had taken The Kid to this nearby Barbershop. The place had a retro vibe to it. The wall is festooned with pictures of Bob Marley, Nirvana, and The Doors. The music is loud and depending on who’s there, the music is hard, sometimes profane. A little liberal shop in the heart of red (soon to be purple) Round Rock. Marcos sat with Milos, who at the time, seemed to blend into the place. We had a few cuts there, but The Kid waned after a bad cut or two.
The Kid is ruthless when it comes to barbers.
We didn’t go back. I tried a couple of places, before looking for another barber.
Last August, The Kid needed a hair cut for school. I remembered one of those stable like places for barbers near the house. We stopped by this one place, but they were booked solid. They directed down the hall to Milos’ door.
The Kid recognized Milos from the previous Barbershop and remembered his cut.
Instantly, I liked Milos’ little shop. His walls is adorned with black and white photos with his family. One photo is of his grandfather who had survived a German Concentration camp. Milos is from Belgrade, Serbia. He’s been cutting hair since he was fifteen. He learned to cut hair in high school and it shows. He plays an 80’s radio station. His little shop, a life long dream of his, is a far cry from the other shop.
I showed Milos a picture of the cut I wanted. He winced knowing he’d be doing a massive cut. “You sure,” he warned.
“Yeah, I’m tired of it.”
Thing is, he cut it short. During the cut, he asked, “what do you think?”
“It’s a little short,” I said. My face said it all. This is why I don’t play poker. And the times I did, I lost every time.
Still, he cut, and every so often asked, “well?”
“Man, it’s short.”
He moved on to trimming my beard. My mustache. “Eyebrows?”
“Get rid of the bridge, blow it up,” I said.
“That one movie…” And began whistling Bridge on the River Kwai. Nice. He got it.
He styled pretty good. Used a blow dryer. Threw some product in it. It looked good.
“How do you like it,” he asked, “and go ahead and say it’s too short again.”
“I like it, but yeah, man you cut it short.”
“It looks good.”
Once I threw on my sunglasses, I knew I had the right cut. Short and all.