For many years, as a child, my father gave me
haircuts. At least that is what he
called it. It was more of shearing than
an actual haircut. A “buzz cut”. I wasn’t a big fan of the buzz cut and would
avoid it for as long as I could . . . or for as long as he would tolerate an unkempt
son. That was my standard haircut for
many for many years—quick and simple.
Being a pale, skinny kid I always looked like something out of a Russian
Gulag.
It was probably around sixth grade that my father tired of his barber duties, my constant whining, and the hassle of trying to shear a wiggly kid that he finally threw in the towel. Around that time, he agreed to allow me to grow my hair out and have a “real” haircut . . . as long as I got myself to the barber on my own. Living on the Air Force Academy at that time this meant that I either had to take the base bus or hike a mile up the bluff to the base barbershop. This was a task I gladly accepted to avoid being a Gulag poster child. Of course, being a military base, the specialty was buzz and crew cuts.
No, I did not hike the two-mile round trip to get a buzz or crew cut. I got a real haircut to fit my father’s specifications . . . over the ears and off the collar. That was short-lived because these were the late 1960s and early 1970s. By junior high school I let my “freak flag” fly much to the disappointment and disapproval of my father. After that first real haircut, I never again came close to a buzz or crew cut.
The irony of the whole haircut journey is that it has almost come full circle. In my balding state of old age, I am contemplating getting a buzz cut. Thinking of shearing it all off . . . and I even own my own shears. So far, I have resisted it but come my final retirement . . . buzz! It is gone.
Haircuts have always been an adventure . . . a hassle. For a long time, it wasn’t a problem. I just looked for the red-white-blue barber pole. Seeing that pole I knew I could get a haircut by a barber. I felt safe . . . and besides, if the barber screwed it up it would grow back in a couple of weeks, or I could wear a hat. Then the times changed. Barbers became a dying breed—at least in the bigger communities where I lived. They were replaced by cosmetologists, beauticians, and hairstylists . . . and they all proclaimed to cut hair. But they weren’t the same. I didn’t need to learn about the cosmos while having my hair cut. Shoot! When you think of yourself as looking like Brad Pitt . . . who needs to be beautified. And I certainly didn’t need style for my hair. I just wanted a haircut!
Since moving to Montana over sixteen years ago, my journey has taken me to a variety of places to have my hair cut. They have run the full gamut. I’ve had my hair cut by cosmetologists . . . beauticians have attempted to but my hair between the dye jobs and perms in an attempt to keep me beautiful . . . and stylists have attempted to give me style. Being in a rural community makes getting a haircut tough.
There is a shop in our town. It is a combination of all three . . . cosmetologist, beautician, and hairstylist. They are whatever you need them to be. The problem is that they are never open when I need a haircut. Also, I feel bad that all I want is a simple haircut when they do so much more. I could get my nails done while having whatever hair I still have left. My granddaughters would think that was cool and that I actually have style. I could get a perm, but I really don’t picture Brad Pitt with a perm . . . it would be more like Bob Ross than Brad Pitt. Plus, they are expensive, and I am cheap. For their prices they should also remove all the hair that migrated south from my head to other parts of my body—like my chest, back, and ears! I do know that they do waxing . . . ouch!
As I said, it has been an adventure. I have done it all from the cosmetologist to those franchised haircutting factories like Cost Cutters. I rarely walked away satisfied. Then I discovered Bob’s Barbershop down the road in a nearby town. Bob’s Barbershop even has the red-white-blue pole announcing to the community that it is a bonified barbershop providing haircuts from its humble abode—plus he is open on Saturdays.
It is a classic barbershop. Several chairs in the entrance, the ancient barber chair in front of a mirror, hair clippings on the floor. Several days of newspapers lying around. He uses clippers and occasionally scissors. Wraps your neck with tissue paper. Shaves your neck when done cutting. Even has a pool table to kill time while waiting. A television is cued to hunting and fishing channels. Music playing that switch between classic country or classic rock—there is no Taylor Swift. I hate to say it, but his is a “man’s” space. The testosterone drips and oozes from the place. And did I say it . . . a real barber pole!
Barbershops are disappearing from our landscape. It’s a shame. Barbershops have been around since at least 5000 BC. The first barbering services were performed by Egyptians. They were respected in their communities. Barbering can be found throughout history and cultures. In the Middle Ages barbers did more than just cut hair. They also performed surgeries, did bloodletting and leeching, fire cupping, enemas, and the extraction of teeth. It was a “one stop shop” . . . I mean, think about it, who wouldn’t want an enema or tooth pulled while getting a haircut.
From the beginning, the barbershop was also a place for social interaction and gathering. They have always been a place where men could gather, talk, shoot the breeze, tell tall tales, and gossip. Yes, men gossip. It has always been a place for men to hang out and bullshit.
Bob’s Barbershop is such a place.
I got a haircut yesterday. I sat in the chair as customers—men of all ages—shot the breeze (there is no limit on the number of breezes that can be shot), gossiped, and debated the world’s current events. I’ve witnessed some lively debates (actually arguments) take place while getting my hair cut. I hear it all—politics, weather, sports, the local ski hill, critter sightings . . . it is all there. It is a safe place where masculinity can exert itself away from the world of females—especially spouses. It is utter BS at its finest and you better wear boots.
It felt good to get a haircut yesterday. I talked to a young man who had lived in parts of Nebraska where I had lived. Spoke to an eighteen-year-old who is graduating in about a month and his dreams of becoming a mining engineer. Another spoke about the weather. Bob and I spoke about the Orange One’s actions towards Canada and making it the 51st state and how it would affect his business. Apparently, a lot of Canadian like to get their hair cut during the tourist season. Just sitting there, the clippers humming, I felt safe. I felt I belonged.
Upon completion, Bob asked what my plans were for the rest of the day. I explained that the wife had ordered furniture for the deck that she wanted me to assemble—rocking chairs and a table. It was a “honey do” task. I shared that assembling furniture was not something I enjoyed doing. He offered me the opportunity to stay in the shop all day if I wanted. I have never heard that in a beauty shop or hair salon. As much as I appreciated the invitation, I knew better. What hair was still on my head would be scalped if I did. I declined.
As I walked out the door, I turned and wished everyone a “good day!” The choral response was “you too!” It was a holy moment . . . sacred. A benediction of sorts . . . “peace be with you” . . . and in sacred response, “And also with you.” It is an eternal rite of blessing still occurring today. You can only find it in a barbershop . . . one with a pole. A pole that marks sanctuary.
Yup, it felt good . . . its been a long journey.
