Very few still have wooden statues of Native Americans
positioned at the entrances. The blue-white smoke that formed a constant cloud
hanging below the tin ceilings has dissipated as anti-smoking ordinances were
enacted and enforced. But the candy cane
swirl of a barber pole still announces one of the last surviving havens for
guys. These places are not salons. You can’t make an appointment – some don’t
have telephones. Barber shops.
Last week, I sat in the barber chair in Barry’s shop. His is a traditional chair with a cast iron
base and long handle with a faux ivory grip so he can operate the chair’s
hydraulic pump. The action of pumping
sounds like a moose gargling while his mate is wheezing but the seat raises or
lowers so the head of hair is brought to the barber’s hands and eyes.
Every shop, Barry’s included, has a picture window in front
or on the end of the row of barber chairs.
Such windows are always slightly smoky with some of the lettering
chipped or faded. Without fail, there
are posters announcing events for the local schools or community
charities. For passersby, the view might
look like aliens – turning and tilting, rising up and lowering down in a device
reminiscent of Captain Kirk’s seat in
the Enterprise.
In the middle of a Tuesday, business was slow. Kids were in school, normal adults were
working and that left room for the codgers to capture the place. “Heads of hair” may overstate the backlog of
work for Barry because the hair that these pates once donned is now mostly
absent. Some might expect the talk to be
highbrow – politics and such. After all,
an election loomed within a week. Or
perhaps the hurricane called Sandy and the hell she (or he) was visiting on our
east coast neighbors. What else would be
expected of distinguished older gentlemen who were past the 20 mile mark of life’s
marathon?
Nope. Stories of
Halloweens long past dominated the discourse.
Nothing was said about the cuteness of costumes selected by their
grandkids. These were stories about
mischief perpetrated a half century or more before. The first storyteller put the mark on the
wall – convenient memory and enhanced recollection gained momentum as each one
recalled his youthful escapades.
The fellow in Barry’s chair (names were not known nor needed
among the barber shop patrons) was getting his biweekly flat top trim. All by itself, the cut was enough to place
him as a septuagenarian – or possibly a member of some alien cult. Hearing aids from both ears were removed and
his trifocal glasses rested on the counter below the mirror. The sleeves of his plaid flannel shirt were
rolled up to reveal the woven long johns beneath. Being in the chair gave him the floor – he spoke. He told his tale.
The telling went uninterrupted because he had no way to know
if anyone was listening since he couldn’t hear nor make out the expression on
any face. Punctuated by smiles and
chuckles, he recounted times when he led his band of pranksters in the
commissions of minor infractions like soaping windows and tilting
outhouses. Uninterrupted his story ran
on until Barry spun him around and returned his glasses to look in the mirror
and approve the cut. He paid for the cut
and sat down to reinsert his hearing aids.
Next batter. That’s
what Barry called out. Next up was a
really big guy with a fringe of hair encircling the three or four follicles
that still produced a strand of gray.
Ruddy cheeks and neck bespoke hours in the fields tended by hands as big
as canned hams. Short sleeves revealed
huge biceps – pistons that needed open air to stay cool. His laugh came from the center of his barrel
chest and its sound waves seemed to rattle the glass. His story tickled himself – so much that his
whole recitation was laughter driven by memories and punctuated with occasional
words. Smiles all around testified to
the contagiousness of his happy nature.
So on it went. One
after the other. Each story, to the
extent it could be followed, outdid the last.
There was not a word spoken about anyone’s problem or concern. The old tube type television sat on its stand
but remained dark. Not a single cell
phone was consulted for messages, calls, emails or information from the internet.
The codgers talked without judging the
talkers. Everyone had entrusted their
troubles to the invisible Indian outside the door. In the fishbowl on this side of the picture
window, no one cared who watched nor what they’d say about what they saw.
Sixty minutes elapsed.
Six haircuts delivered. Six guys
smiled. So did the barber shop.
--td