Arcade Barber Shop

Service was quick and prompt after a few minutes wait. I was received by a person who I thought would do a good job, but the cut fell short of my expectations. I instructed to do a fade and trim to match my previous haircut, but what I got was a buzz and a mediocre trim on top. The result is that the sides do not match the top or my scalp — looks awkward in my opinion. For $ 25 I would imagine someone here had a sense of style and knew what a fade was. The stylists’ job is to 1) take your instructions into account and 2) add their sense of style to fit within your instructions. Step 1 and 2 were not addressed. Also the person man-​handled me and I’m surprised I didn’t get a cut or scrape. Could be better for $ 25.
I’m a a little disappointed, but the other barbers might do a better job.

WORST HAIRCUT I EVER GOT. She did not understand what a fade was and gave me a mullet. DO NOT GO HERE

I’ll admit, I haven’t ever thought much of the barbers I’ve been to. It’s mostly been a get in, get a haircut, maybe have some small talk, and get back to work.
While my haircut at the Arcade Barber Shop was done in silence with no banter, the actual service I came for, and what mattered most, was superb. Paul, an elderly Italian, was able to give me an excellent haircut.
And I’ve been to many different barbers. Some were more upbeat and talkative while others were more somber and to the point. Some cost next to nothing while others had prices reserved for the corner office set. But the Arcade Barber Shop got the job done where others didn’t quite make the cut.

A scratched off lottery ticket, pictures of grandchildren tucked below the mirror’s beveled edge, a barber’s certificate in a frame whose side is held on by a thick skin of yellowed packing tape. Where is the heart of old New York? Here it is, hidden inside 25 W 43^rd street in a broad florescent-​lit room where the outdated white panelling simultaneously blends into and distracts from the Italian marble walls where there once was a bank or post office or coffee shop. Enzo, a kindly and short septuagenarian, lowers your head in the gaudy maroon sink and smiles. «Is better… wash,» he says in a thick accent. His odor is strong but somehow comforting as he washes your hair with doting precision.
Each cut is taken with the slow delicacy of someone in love with his craft. Seeming minutes pass between clips. The white haired man in the next chair lifts his head, deflating his double chin for a moment, then goes back to napping as his barber cuts away. Enzo himself is proof that the cobbler has holes in his shoes. He white hair is dyed a cringe-​inducing red that betrays a tier of silver below and he’s blow dried the thread-​like fibers into a brittle puff that doubles as a comb over. Without asking, he douses you with hair spray. your scalp tingles and your senses pause, tasked with sourcing this long forgotten odor.
A man in a tailored suit and sparse silver hair requests an appointment and Enzo pauses sheepishly to pore over his date book. As laughter erupts behind the halfwall separating men from women, the two quietly agree to a time. Enzo bows his head once in silent polite apology to you, before teasing your hair to a hard-​shelled curve. For the time being this is no longer your head, but his canvas, and with a seeming obsession he finishes his creation, whipping away the red smock and dumping talc down your shirt.
He hands you a ticket with his name printed in all caps ENZO followed by two european looking «2“s. It’s higher than you expect, but you don’t seem to mind. You leave a $ 5 tip and wonder if it’s too little, before gathering your things and pressing your fingers onto your crystalline hair. Outside a summer shower has erupted and you walk boldly into it with a smirk.