By Rory Corcoran, Editor in Chief
I had just arrived in Hermosa Beach, California after a weeklong cross-country road trip from New York. Unaccustomed to the winter heat, I decided to go out and get my hair cut. I ventured aimlessly along the main street in hopes that a barber would not be far. I soon spotted the blue and red ribbons of a barber’s pole spinning in the distance, and I approached the tinted storefront window it hung upon. “Berl’s Hermosa Haircutting,” the sign read. In that instance, the door swung open, and I was thrust inside by a booming voice.
“You need a haircut?” the man asked as he dangled a smock in front of me like a matador. It was more of an order. I sat in the lone barber chair as he prepared his equipment. The shop was intimate and its décor resembled that of a hole-in-the-wall bar. The mirrors and walls were cluttered with old photographs and stickers from seemingly every rock and roll band you could name (and many you could not).
“So you’re Berl,” I said.
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