A MEMORY TO BE SHARED

THE BARBERSHOP

I’m a not-so-old guy who grew up in the 50’s and 60’s (20^th century) and have seen a thing or two (to borrow a phrase from a TV ad) between then and now. I am not going into the big changes or “the good old days”. I just want to talk about haircuts. I don’t remember my first time getting the hair out of my eyes, nor do I remember much about it before I was 5 or 6. Then, Mom’s boyfriend’s friend convinced her to let him cut my red locks into a manly flat top. For a red head, a flat top is the worst haircut there is. It allows the sun to penetrate to the skin of one’s pate and the tender tips of your ears. A ball cap covers your noggin, but leaves your ears exposed. Scabby, sun-burnt ears, are not a fun summer in my mind. I had a flat-top haircut until the British invasion (The Beatles) on The Ed Sullivan Show. Then like a regular teen lemming, I pursued long hair to be like them. I wasn’t always successful and the last flat-top haircut I received was in the summer of my fifteenth year when I went to work on a dude ranch in Wyoming (in the thin air of 8000 ft elevation) and despite the broad brimmed cowboy hat Dad purchased for me, my ears were burnt to a crisp within three days.

The reason I am telling you this is that I usually didn’t go to a barber shop to get sheared, but to my Dad’s buddies kitchen or garage (depending on the air temperature) for my regular trim. When not able to get one there Dad took me to the local (DPG) barber whose specialty was a buzzed head for soldiers on the Army base where we lived. After the Brits made their inroads on the Barbering business here in the USA, the local guy did his best to modify his specialty into a “Beatle cut”. Not always successfully, I might add. But his barbershop was like every other in America, Old men with a tufty, silvery fringe, middle-aged middle managers with their “Mad Man” regular hair cuts, soldiers waiting for the buzz of close clippers, and teens/kids for whatever Dad said we could have. All waiting their turn in The Chair, swiveling, reclining, chrome plated, leather or vinyl upholstery, unforgettable. There was an aroma of light oil on warm clipper blades, stale tobacco, buttery shaving cream, and the ever-present odor of Eau de Toilette (toilet water in common speech and lore). There are more memories in a barbershop to be spoken of later.

Then, it all collapsed, the Brits had toppled a whole industry and we men were relegated to the local Hair Salon with our moms, wives, sisters and little girls to wait our turn reading Cosmo, Elle, and Teen magazines, sitting in dismay among the gossip about nursing, pregnancies, and lousy boyfriends/husbands instead of hunting, fishing, and sports stories. Hanging our heads while trying not to inhale the sour smell of Perm solutions, dyes, and over heated, air-blown up do’s. After all, John Travolta traded in the barbershop for a salon in a “Disco Fever” up there on the big screen. For me, that continued pretty much regularly/infrequently until last year when I traded that for some start-up barbering establishments locally. But I still had to explain what a ‘regular’ haircut was to barbers who were churning out the “Paul Bunyon” look to hipsters.

Six months ago, I stopped into a new shop in town called ‘Black Cat Barbering Co.’ taking a chance that this would be the place. It was, The Chair was there, aroma of light oil on warm clipper blades, even the toilet water. The first time in there, Kevin and I talked about books, and music (Johnny Cash, Kris, Waylon, The Beatles, Maroon 5, Three Doors Down, you get the drift) and barbering as a cultural experience that every guy should have. If you’re a guy that hasn’t had the back of your neck prepped with a hot, wet towel and the buttery warm shaving cream to be shaved with a straight razor, and toilet water splashed over the newly shaved skin, then, well, you need to do it at least once. When the barber is done with all that he turns you to face the mirror and asks if everything is ok, and you nod yes, then he  brushes any loose hairs onto the cape that protects your clothes and with a bit of drama, he flourishes that cape, shaking the cut hair onto the floor. You get up, reach for your wallet and go to the counter and pay, adding a tip, the amount depends on your style and satisfaction.

I had forgotten what a treat a real haircut at the barbershop was until stopping into the Black Cat Barbering Co. Today, Fernando and I talked about growing herbs and vegetables, Bonsai trees and food.  Chili Rellenos, squash blossom quesadillas, The Red Iguana, the Blue Iguana and some joint in West Valley that has the best ramen. I came out of there with a haircut like my middle grandson, short on the sides, and longish, floppy on top. Relax, it’s a regular haircut, not a hipster ‘do’ like his.

I just have to leave you with this: the barbershop where you can smell the odors of male grooming, talk about guy stuff, read Outdoor Life, have your hair cut not styled, and just be you, no posing necessary.  Try it, I bet you’ll like it.