UNDER COVID, PT. 30: NOTES FROM UNDERGROUND AND OVER SCALP

This sign is now in our building's first floor, opposite the hand
sanitizer.  I expect the management company to eventually
hire someone to take our temperatures every time we enter.

Last Thursday marked a double milestone for me in COVID-stricken New York: for the first time in four months, I got a haircut and rode the subway. Two subways, really, when you take into account I had to transfer. So maybe that makes it a triple milestone. Living dangerously, that's me.

These events were unthinkable even a month ago. The barbershops opened only at the beginning of July. While I was enjoying my new look, it was getting awfully shaggy in the back. But I had wanted to wait a couple of weeks to see if there was a spike in COVID cases after hair salons re-opened. For no matter how badly I needed a trim, a barbershop was not going to be the hill I intended to die on.

Tell 'em Kevin sent you. Not that they'll know who you're
talking about.

I arrived at there at 8:20 a.m., ten minutes before the official opening time. Two other guys were already there (outside, of course) ahead of me. One of the barbers arrived two minutes later to open the joint up. Due to social distancing laws, I had to continue to wait outside while the other two customers went in. 

But for my wife, it's worth it.

Whether due to our easy haircuts or the urge to get people out as fast as possible, the barber ushered me inside within 15 minutes, after the other customers had left. Being used to five barbers working at once while another five customers waited their turn, it was a little eerie that he and I were the only ones there. 

They've had to to raise the price for their standard cut to $20, a perfectly understandable move -- particularly when my wife has to shell out over a hundred bucks with tip. But she goes twice a year, while I go at least six times, so we're not that much apart, no matter how much she whines about it.

From there, I went straight to the Q train on 2nd Avenue. Although I hadn't been there since March 10, for some reason it didn't seem out of place to ride the escalator down to the track; it felt like I was going to another background gig. Muscle memory, I believe they call it. It's probably the most impressive muscle I possess.

No rush at rush hour.

Unlike pre-COVID rush hour workday mornings, the platform was nearly deserted. And instead of standing-room only, with passengers pressed together like a loaf of sliced bread after it's been stepped on by Fatty Arbuckle, the half-dozen or so people on my car were spread out several feet apart. 

Although I had the front part of the car to myself, with more empty seats than there were actual passengers, I stood as I usually did at rush hour. Somehow it felt cleaner than sitting. Years of practicing the fine art of balancing my back against the front a crowded subway car have paid off. 

Now I know what it was like when Pres.
Roosevelt took a private train from
Washington to New York.

Transferring to the 7 train at Grand Central was another eye-opener. No need to squeeze past commuters running for their ride -- there was plenty of room for everyone (or, rather, the few of us there) to stroll through the station. 

The 7 train itself was close to deserted. There was literally nobody but me on my car and the ones directly in front and behind it. To put it another way, if you told any New Yorker pre-COVID that this selfie was taken on the 7 train at 9:30 in the morning, they would have called you (and I quote) "a lying motherfucker."

After arriving at Hudson Yards, no more than four other passengers exited the train with me -- and we were outnumbered by MTA workers on the platform at least 5 to 1. Most were there to clean the train, as they now do at the end of each line. 

If riding a near-sterile subway is the result of COVID, the subsequent arrival delays are worth it. I just hope people still avoid riding it.


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