A liter of sweat, two spoons of blood, a cup of paint and a tube of Bepanten

There are only three places in the city where a girl understands from the doorway: she is not expected here. This is a gay club, a monastery and a barbershop. If the first two are beyond good and evil, then the barbershop does not leave me alone. What do they, the men in the barber's chair, understand that is beyond my control? The girl who came to the barbershop, of course, will not be kicked out with a nasty broom, but there will be less attention to her than to the bum who entered the jewelry store - all the consultants as one understand that such a client will not buy anything here. For the sake of fairness, it should be noted that from time immemorial all salons and hairdressing salons in Minsk were open to ladies, and the man there with the Cosmopolitans spread out in front of his nose looked wild, not to the court. Maybe barbershops are revenge on women for years of discrimination?

How can a girl find herself in a barber's armchair

The first barbershop that opened in Minsk was the Kiev franchise Firm. Then the Belarusian Cut opened, and finally the Russians Chop-Chop pulled themselves up. And that's it, the quiet life is over - the cult of the beard and the same hairstyles in the American style of the 40s began, with shaved temples and a forelock, which, I must say, really paint most guys. Since I am a stubborn person, I wanted to get into a barbershop no less than Eve wanted to bite an apple. Moreover, get in as a client. When Chop-Chop announced that they would have tattoos for everyone at the party, I signed up for the guest list without blinking a glance. Since there is no beard, then here it is, a chance! I'll get a tattoo in the barbershop.

The Chop-Chop party looked like an open house in a bachelor's condominium: you’re not very clear what you’re doing here, but if a case of beer is cooled in the sink, then any guests are welcome. The first question I asked Olga Kibalchich, managing director of Chop-Chop: what is common between a tattoo and a hairdresser, in other words, why do they do parties together with the Good Sign tattoo studio? According to Olga, such a cross-promo is a classic of the genre. Historically, in American barbershops, in addition to trimming the beard, they pulled out their teeth, stuffed tattoos and removed warts for men. The very symbol of the barbershop is a spinning roller with a bloody bandage wound around it, which was drying in the wind. In Chop-Chop, a similar contraption is stylized as a rotating lamp.

Where is the line between beauty and blue disease

Meanwhile, tattoo artists from Good Sign were laying out sketches on the counter. Imagine my disappointment when I saw the options for work: a skull, a bird, a deer, a woman's head. I will not sacrifice a clean piece of leather to hammer the outline of a deer on my hand! The first person who dared to fill the picture was named Maxim. It seems that he was an employee of a barbershop. Maxim took a chair for the next hour, and the salon began to fill with the smell of alcohol and blood. “Imagine, at tattoo festivals there are people who get their whole backs hammered in one day. They, of course, cry and ask for painkillers .. ", - a stranger told me at a party. I thought that a tattoo is not beauty in its purest form. This is a protest. You can fill your toes with "step on the balls" - the image will be considered a tattoo in the same way as a skillfully executed dragon on the entire back. Think about it, do you like heavily tattooed arm sleeves? And completely, from shoulders to ears, a clogged neck? A leopard man with a tattooed face? In general, where is the line between beauty and obvious overkill, and after what trip to the tattoo parlor can you diagnose yourself with a "blue disease"?

I got my first tattoo at the age of 19. It was during a vacation in the Crimea with friends, where for the first time I managed to go without my parents. After renting a room in a clay hut and counting the remaining money, I realized that I could afford to throw away a couple of dollars for a tattoo. She did not hesitate for a second with a place on her body. Since childhood, I had a white spot on my lower back, which in the 5th grade I covered it with a plaster before going to the pool. The salon was located right on the beach, and was little different from the beer tent of the then Ukrainian resort. I chose a suitable drawing from the catalog - a modest circle with a snake and arrows. The master worked on it for an hour. It was painful. But not enough to forget about tattoo parlors for the rest of your life.

Polynesian patterns

Despite the fact that the tattoo was filled with me for a purely utilitarian purpose - to close the age spot, I shook off a lot for it in ten years of my life. Since 2005, similar jewelry, however, in the center of the lower back has become so widespread that it became uncomfortable for me to undress on the beach. Moreover, at that time Chinese characters were in vogue, and I, with my circle to the right of the spinal column, did not fit into any trend. In 2012, the surgeon who performed the operation on me joked clumsily: "I see the seal, but where is the price tag?" When a 5-centimeter scar on my back was added to my tattoo, I made the final decision to get rid of the labor of an unknown beach master. I was just waiting for the right opportunity.

Seizing the moment when the tattooists came out on the porch of the barbershop for a smoke break, I went up to them. Then everything happened by itself: I showed an old tattoo, said that I hate circles, snakes, roses and skulls. In general, to be honest, most of the tattoos do not like me: vulgar, deliberately and probably in five years will get sick of colic. Among the masters there was the most silent and brutal guy named Vitaly Sharapov. He asked: “Have you seen Polynesian patterns?”

Vitaly showed an ornament right on his iPhone, which Maori cannibals were filling themselves. After seeing the Polynesian tattoos, I decided that it suited me, and appointed a day and time. There was nothing else to do at the barbershop party. To close the topic of barbershops, I will say that these places bribe with honesty, like the films of Guy Ritchie or the early Tarantino: without snot, manicure and female pink fantasies. The only thing I didn’t understand was why no one has yet muddied the same sincere startup for girls by calling it, for example, “Barbishop”?