I dread going to haircuts since young. As a guy, I consider it a monthly chore which must be done to make my hair looks similar to the one I sport last month. The problem is that I can never know how my hair will turn out this time, and more often than not, I will not like it. If paying ten times more for a haircut can ease my dreadfulness, it may be well worth a shot. When I was young, they are called barbers. Not stylists, hairdressers or even hair artists. The ones I usually go to were run by uncles, in an utilitarian shop with a colorful rotating sign on the shopfront (called Barber’s pole). Full sized mirrors, 3 or 4 adjustable height chairs, long side bench for waiting customers and a floor full of hair were the common sight. The uncles don’t usually look approachable and ...