Why yes, I have The Flava.
Rather unknowingly, I entered into a compact of sorts with my teammates during our “Great Southern Revival” tour (aka, the week of Fast-and-Hard-as-Balls Crits). The original details? If anyone wrecked during the week, they’d get a head shavin’. While Tommy was our lucky first contestant with a quick spill at Twilight, he preempted the clippers by turning himself into the sporting version of dear Nikita the week before he got to Georgia.
And thus, the burden fell to me, going for a brief skitter on the second day of racing at Roswell. Given my rather creative and indifferent past hairstyle choices (ranging the spectrum of colors and various methods to make it stand on end), I was pretty open to whatever the uh… extremely dextrous clippers of Mr. Cole House could sculpt. Sadly, as you might be able to tell from the “before” image, things went a little south (think preschooler fingerpainting meets cosmetology school). I let the bizarre amalgamation of the skullet, mohawk, and “creative” designs last a whopping three days before deciding to lop it off in our temporary home of Greenville, SC.
I initially proposed piloting myself to the nearest Supercuts for a quarter-inch shave, but our super-soigneur (and portion of our management staff, and not actually a soigneur) Eric took serious issue, demanding that I visit a “real Southern barbershop, specializing in black hairstyles” (note: He probably wasn’t that eloquent). If you’ve ever met me, I’m northern-European pasty-white Utah boy, with the hair to match…and I’m always up for a challenge! So, I popped “barber” into Google Maps and found the closest barbershop with the most badass name: The Flava. A quick phone call ensured availability, and we were on our way to what appeared to be the sketchiest barbershop on Earth. Upon entrance, Eric and I had a bit of an Animal House club scene moment. Hilarity ensued, and a guy with the moniker “The Mangler” welcomed yours truly into his chair. The Mangler, real name Keith, was rather aghast at Cole’s coiffure creation, and promptly went to work with no less than eight sets of clippers. As soon as he learned I was visiting from Utah, he told me not to mind the nutjobs and that I was already family at The Flava. Eric proceeded to make himself at home, arguing amongst the regulars about the lack of an upcoming Pacquiao/Mayweather fight.
We left the Flava, me $20 poorer, and yet, my mane had been tamed in the fashion of one of America’s greatest role models. Rad.