PERSONAL: The House of Lords Cut It All Off

My hair and I have a shaky allegiance. I let it do its own thing and it lets me live. Even if it’s own thing includes growing into a huge curly ‘fro that kills anyone that dares call it "Sheep-Like". But eventually (And under pressure from certain female figures) the whole “getting it cut” thing must come into play. And even though I’ve been in Toronto for almost a year now, I have no set place to get the operation done. Doing a quick search on Google, a salon called ‘House of Lords’ rose to the top as the most recommended venue. I had actually walked by it a few times and been confused, because it looks more like a concert hall then a hair salon. No matter. If it’s cheap. I’m in.

The lady at the counter popped her gum and glanced at me disapprovingly. The place was packed. A kid stared at me miserably beside his long haired father. He shot daggers at me as if it completely my fault he was about to have his scalp tortured.
I tried to yell over “Back in Black” as it roared on the loudspeaker. I didn't win.
“How long do I have to---“ I sputtered before being cut off with a bubble gum popped glance.
“Ten minutes. Sit down.”
Meekly, I shuffled over to the waiting area . Ten SECONDS later a small Asian woman poked me in the ribs. I think she wanted to steal one.
“You fjadlkaldjks?” she said in under the blaring pop music.
“Pardon?” I asked.
“kjdsakdkljskla” she said. This time her eyebrows arched as if saying “Last time now. Answer or get out of my sight YOU FOOL”
“Yes” I said with a smile and and nod. I hoped deep down I wasn’t agreeing to anything illegal.
She hustled me over across the casualties of snipping and I sat down in a barbers chair and started to sweat. I really hoped this wasn't going to hurt. And if it did, I hoped I'd fall unconcious quick.
“How you want hair?” she asked as she attempted to drown the matted black stuff on the top of my head.
“Ughhhh”. I hate this part. It doesn’t help that my instructions mostly involving miming scissors cutting with the phrase “Short, but not TOO short” repeated till it sounded right. I really hoped I don’t get a skinhead job like last time.
I finish my performance and the woman nods as if the universe’s infinite puzzle has finally been solved.
“We make you sexy.” She said “Now hunch down in the chair.”
What? Is there a sniper with a bead trained on my forehead?
“HUNCH down” she said with a shove and I slumped in my chair. Oh, I guess chairs here don’t lift. Or her foot was severed in a horrible alligator related incident and she can’t maneuver the lifting pedal anymore. Both plausible excuses.
Before the words "How was your day? Any fatalities?" the buzzer was out and wanted revenge on all those hairs that dared grow. VROOOOM. It went high. Too high. I tried to swallow but my saliva had seeked refuge. I blinked. The scissors where unsheathed . I could barely feel them as they SNIPPED-SNIPPED every which way but loose. She was a pro. Usually I get the feeling the barber would rather rip the hairs from my head then cut them. I think I could finally rela----
“All done!” my surgeon screamed into my ear.
I stared for a second and squinted. I looked good. Well, as good as bespectacled kid with a Transformers t-shirt could look.

While it was a bit disorientating at first, House of Lords was very quick, cheap (14$ for me) and didn’t end with my ear on the ground as I screamed and grasped at a the squirting wound. Check it out if you don’t know where to go and want nothing more then a simple slash and dash.

House of Lords

639 Yonge Street

Toronto, ON M4Y 1Z9

(416) 962-1111