-
-
Ad Space
(728 x 90)
Video
In the Bronx, G Star Cuts barbershop lies just across the freeway overpass on Tremont Avenue, which boasts an abundance of tattoo shops, a Coast Guard and an Army Recruitment Center, and more than one office with PROFESSIONAL BUILDING on its awning.
Friday nights here call for Hennessy and Heinekens. Toward closing time, a group of friends that grew up together on a nearby block gathers at G Star. Just before 11pm, there are only two customers left in the chairs, but at least ten guys hang around the shop, including a two-foot-tall heartbreaker drinking grape juice and giving high fives. (They’re high to him, anyway.) Richie, 26, is finishing up a skin fade on Ron, who used to be a barber here, but moved to Long Island to work as an electrical engineer. “He’s like family,” says Richie. Ron drives all the way in from Long Island every week to have Richie do his cut. “I wouldn’t trust anyone else,” he says. “This guy makes me look beautiful.”
Omar, or “Mo,” 32, pours the Hennessy shots and brags that he is the Monopoly champion of G Star…possibly of the world. Richie works a second job as a real-estate appraiser and Mo works in construction, so they take the game very seriously. “When you’re a kid,” says Richie, “you don’t think about strategy. But when you get older, you learn about negotiating and how to take advantage of anyone who doesn’t know how to make a deal.”
Eric, 21, whom everyone calls “the Kid,” has a barber station next to Richie’s. Where Richie’s station is cluttered with beer bottles (“These aren’t even mine!”), open products and a day’s worth of shavings (“My station’s got character,” he says. “I like it this way.”), the Kid keeps his pomades in a neat tower and the nozzles of the spray bottles all lined up. “These guys raised me,” he says, grinning.
Someone puts on Maroon 5 and Quaheem, a.k.a. “Q,” 31, throws his arms in the air and belts along with the cheesy music. “This is the whitest black man you’ll ever meet,” says the Kid. “Hey Eric,” Richie calls over, holding a straight razor just beneath Ron’s nose, “Why don’t you pretend you cut hair?”
“You’re not actually a barber?” I ask. Eric shoots me a look that says, “Of course I’m a barber.”
“So he’s just giving you shit then?”
“That’s what Friday nights are all about,” says the Kid. “It’s a guys’ getaway.”
Want TONY to hang with your crew? E-mail inyc@timeoutny.com and tell us how you get down.
