HOME GERRY		IN SEARCH OF ENZO By Cousin Gerry Where are you, Enzo? I need a haircut. Enzo doesn't run a hairdressing salon. He runs a shop called Barber for Men. It has red and white stripes. When I walk in, Enzo doesn't offer me a latté and a fashion magazine. He stares at me. And as I sit down, I look for a copy of the local paper, or last year's Trading Post. Once I'm in the chair, I tell Enzo what I want. Short. Everywhere. Just a little less short on top than around the sides and back. And that's exactly what Enzo does. Enzo doesn't ooh and aah about how wonderful my hair is. My natural waves. My layers. He knows his job is to kill it. Enzo doesn't huff and puff and frown at me like I have insulted his skills and his ancestors if I say, "Enzo, just hit it with the clippers." Because Enzo knows what I think of 'scissor over comb'. Enzo won't ask me what I do for a living, what I did on the weekend, and what the plans are for tonight. Enzo doesn't care. If he says anything at all, it starts with "When I come-a to this country..." Enzo doesn't keep me sitting there for two hours while he snips and teases and poses at himself in the mirror and steps back to admire his own work. Oh no. Enzo has me in and out of that chair as quickly as he possibly can. Because Enzo charges five bucks a cut.