Back in 1999, my pal Mark and his girlfriend had an idea: “Let’s run off to Vegas and get married!” Sounds like fun, right? A couple of kooky kids throwing convention out the window and jetting off to Vegas to tie the knot. Problem was, Mark and Mary Beth weren’t impetuous kids. Mark was a senior executive at a prosperous IT firm and Mary Beth was a med student finishing school. Running off to Vegas, getting married, then telling everyone after the fact was not in their respective makeups. Ten years prior? Maybe.

So, things started to get complicated. The Vegas wedding became a Vegas wedding with a few close friends. Mark asked me to be his best man, so I was on the hook. I’d never been to Las Vegas, nor had I been so honored to serve as a best man, so I was ready and willing. I was under no illusion that Las Vegas was anything like the idyllic Rat-Pack-at-The-Sands-era Vegas Vince Vaughn and Jon Favreau dreamed about in Swingers. In fact, the words “Vegas, baby!” never crossed my lips. I hadn’t been any farther west than Iowa, so I was excited to see a new part of the country.

The Vegas wedding with a few close friends quickly became a Vegas wedding with a few close friends and immediate family. Then, it became a Vegas wedding with friends and family. Then, it became a regular wedding–best man, maid-of-honor, groomsmen, bride’s maids, a priest, a church, a reception hall, a cake, a bartender, a DJ, the whole kit and kaboodle–only in Las Vegas. The “running off to Las Vegas” part was the only part that never changed.

At the time, I was making eight bucks an hour pulling data cable in Maryland. I was bringing home about $250.00 a week. My rent was $600.00 a month. Needless to say, I didn’t have a whole lot of extra mad money lying around. I didn’t have a whole lot of gum money lying around. Mark was nice enough to spring for a room for myself and my girlfriend, and I worked out a deal with my employer, who bought our airline tickets on the condition I pay them back through payroll deductions. After the gift and the tuxedo rental, we landed in Las Vegas with about two hundred dollars to blow. It’s a good thing I’d quit drinking the month before. Yeah, you read that right. I’d quit drinking the month before my best friend got married in Las Vegas, where I would be in the company of my old “runnin’ crew” from my twenties. In Las Vegas. Nice timing.

We all stayed at the Monte Carlo, which was a nice place. Between the rooms and the casino downstairs, there wasn’t much reason to leave the hotel–not that I really wanted to, since it was 175 degrees out. We did manage to venture out occasionally–at night–to neighboring casinos like New York, New York. Actually, I think New York, New York was the only other casino I visited. Did I mention I didn’t have any money and I had stopped drinking a month prior?

The day before the wedding–or maybe it was the day of, I don’t remember–the “girls” had their “day of beauty” at the Monte Carlo’s salon. I was a bit shaggy myself, what with my not being able to afford decent clothes or basic grooming like haircuts, so I thought I’d pop into the no-frills barbershop next to the salon while the girls were being beautified. My girlfriend decided to do a little window shopping while I got my hair cut. She asked if I wanted a souvenir of our visit. I told her to get me a baseball cap–a cheap one–if she saw one. We went our separate ways.

I was greeted by the barber, an old-school Italian-American from New Jersey who transplanted in Vegas during the “glory years.” The walls were covered in photos of the barber with the usual suspects–Wayne Newton, Joey Bishop, The Chairman, etc. He knew them all, he said, as he snipped away. I didn’t buy it, but it was a fun yarn. It was a vicarious thrill having my hair cut by “the real deal” right there in Vegas. His staccato delivery, punctuated by the steely swish of the scissors and the bracing smell of the aftershave lulled me back in time to a place that probably never existed. (It certainly didn’t exist where we were. Back in the days of old-school Vegas, the only things where the Monet Carlo sits today were sand, scrub, and lizards. Maybe a few wiseguys.)

Once my neck had been whisked and the barber whipped off the cape with a flourish, it was over. He spun me around to admire his handiwork. Now, I’d been a bit suspicious when he got out the blow-dryer, but I wasn’t going to complain–After all, what would a Midwestern rube like myself know about a real Vegas haircut lovingly administered by a man who had shorn the locks of legends? Squadouche, that’s what! If it was good enough for Dino, it was good enough for me! Alas, the man I saw in the mirror staring back at me was no Dean Martin. No, the man I saw was fat, Midwestern John Pickard with a biffed-up, blow-dryed coif like Paulie Walnuts. I looked like an unfortunate hillbilly/wiseguy hybrid–a wisebilly. “Ayyyy! Don’t touch the F150 unless you want I should bust you with my Confederate flag pinky ring! Da South will rise a fuggin-gain! Ohhh!”

I managed to pull the corners of my mouth into a grim rictus resembling a smile and said “Hey!–Looks good!” “How much do I owe ya?” I asked.

“Seventy-five dollars.” he answered, smiling. I nearly passed out. “Seventy-five, eh?” I said, my mouth suddenly as dry as the air outside. “No problem!” I pulled out my wallet and handed him the only thing in it: a hundred-dollar bill. “Tell ya what, just give me a five and we’ll call it even.” I didn’t want to look like a fat, broke, Midwestern rube, after all–even though that’s exactly what I was: a fat, broke, Midwestern rube with a stupid Paulie Walnuts hairdo for which I paid nearly a hundred dollars.

As he handed me my five dollar bill, my girlfriend walked in to the shop with a small bag. “I found a hat for y…” she said, before she had to stifle a guffaw. I shot her a wide-eyed glance that said “Not here. Not now.” as she stood there vibrating from the pent-up laughter. I bid the barber good day and calmly walked out with my girlfriend.

As soon as the door shut behind us, she exploded with laughter. I ran my fingers through the lacquered Guido-helmet on my head and grimaced. “Let me see that hat.” I said. She dug it out of the bag and handed it to me. “How much was the haircut?” she asked me. “Almost a hundred dollars.” I said. She stopped in her tracks and said “Are you serious?” Looking down as I curled the brim of the hat between my hands, I quietly said “Yes.”

“Holy shit!”

“I know, I know–A hundred dollars and I end up looking like…”

“Paulie Walnuts!”

I looked at the hat, then looked over my shoulder to make sure I was out of sight of the barbershop. I skinned the hat down on my head as far as it would go.

“Not anymore.”

This entry was posted on Monday, October 20th, 2008 at 7:46 pm and is filed under Nostalgia, Sharing. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.