I have never been a fan of getting a haircut. It’s a necessary part of grooming, but not one that I relish. I never want to look like I “just got a haircut” so, more often than not, I look like I “need a haircut”. When Ruth and I started dating, she cut my hair from time to time. Once we married, she cut my hair for several years – decades – throughout the eight years that I taught and my fifteen years as an elementary school principal. She was a reluctant cutter, but I appreciated her work.
Once I became a superintendent I decided that I should make sure that I looked well-groomed at all times so the best way to accomplish that task was to have a regular appointment to have my hair cut. The best way to insure regularity was to have my hair cut by a true professional. I developed a schedule with the mother of two of my former elementary school students, Margaret. Margaret did a wonderful job for sixteen years. I can say with confidence that I never looked “like I just got a haircut” or that “I needed a haircut” for that entire time. After sixteen years of dedicated service, Margaret retired from the hair cutting business and abandoned me. Just like that I was left to fend for myself through the maze of barbers and hair stylists.
I’m still stumbling. When I am in Florida I have a go to barber. Carole and her husband retired from the barber business in New York. They live in The Villages and cut hair three days a week. She’s the closest I have found to Margaret. Sometimes I leave her looking like I “just got a haircut”, but I’ve learned to live with her imperfections.
Recently, I found a lady in Jackson who is pretty good too, but I fear that she may not be working when I return to Michigan next spring. I am giving her one last shot before we leave the area for the winter.
The thing that I have discovered over the past several years is that I prefer a woman’s cut. Barber or stylist, they seem to take their work more seriously. They tend to listen more to what you want. For me it’s “just off the ears” and “I don’t want to look like I just got a haircut when you’re done.”
When I was a kid my dad took me with him to get a haircut. The barber shop was two blocks up and two and half blocks over. The shop was owned by two brothers, Henry and Pete. Henry had the first chair and Pete had the second. There were five chairs. There were a couple other regular barbers for chairs three and four and the fifth chair was manned by a couple of different guys over the years. Some years it sat unattended. The only barbers names that I knew were Henry and Pete, because they were the only barbers that my mom wanted to cut my hair. Irony of ironies, Henry was bald. Pete had a full head of hair and they both had a mustache.
There were no appointments. You walked in and, if you were lucky, you got your hair cut right away. Most of the time you waited. There was no number system like at the butcher shop. You just waited and everyone was on the honor system. When it was your turn, you hopped up in the chair and got a haircut. If you wanted a specific guy to cut your hair (like Henry or Pete), you gave up your spot and waited until Henry or Pete was free.
When I was very young they had a booster seat. The seat stretched cross the entire barber chair and was made of leather just like the chair itself. Henry or Pete helped me up into the seat and my hair started flying. There were no directives. They just cut.
My mom took me a couple of times when my hair was getting too long and my dad didn’t have time to take me. This only happened when some “big deal” like a holiday, or the beginning of a new school year, was just around the corner. Most visits were Saturday morning with my dad.
I filled my waiting time by looking at magazines (just the pictures) and listening to the men talk. Most of the talk was about sports. That’s where I learned about guys like Bobby Layne, Tobin Rote, Frank Bowling, Ray Boone, and Frank Lary. If they weren’t talking about sports, there was a game on the radio.
The barber shop is also where I learned to whistle. Pete taught me. One day one of the guys in the shop was whistling a tune while waiting for his turn in a chair. The topic of whistling came up and somebody asked me if I could whistle. I couldn’t. Pete asked if I ever tried. I hadn’t. He gave me a little instruction, accompanied by a personal demonstration. I was about six or seven and, before I left the shop that day, I could whistle.
As I got older I went to the barber shop on my own. One day I was in a hurry and let one of the guys in the third or fourth chair cut my hair. I was in too much of a hurry to wait for Henry or Pete. I had ridden my bike and when I got home mom asked who had cut my hair. When I told her she loaded me into the car and we drove back to the shop. The guy that cut my hair hadn’t taken enough “off”, so mom made him cut again until she was satisfied that she had gotten her money’s worth.
When I was about thirteen, Pete asked me a question that I had never been asked
before. “Do you want sideburns?” I didn’t know what they were but they sounded painful. “No thanks.” Once I learned what they were, I wanted them. I looked forward to the warm shaving cream around my ears and across the back of my neck. I had seen the razor and leather straps and listened to the hissing sound that the razor made when it was sharpened. I had sat in wonder when others, like my dad, had received this special treatment. Once I had my first trim in such a manner, I looked forward to it. It became the best part of getting my haircut.
When I started to shave, I thought that it would be great to get a shave by a barber. The hot towels, the warm cream, and the hissing the razor sounded like a great combo. I thought that it would be a treat to get a professional shave just prior to an important event like a job interview or my daughter’s wedding, but I’ve never taken the leap. While I don’t plan have any job interviews, and my one daughter is married, I believe I have some leaping time left.