The Barbershop

My first haircut

I remember my first haircut. Okay kind of. I remember the barbershop and the barber. I must have been five years old. Our neighborhood barber aka bookie whose name I will not mention, was quite a character.  He was my father's barber and now he was going to be mine. I wonder if my dad made the odd wager or was he strictly there for the haircut and conversation. My dad was the most handsome man in the neighborhood.  He had a killer smile and Popeye forearms, and many neighborhood women had a secret crush on him. My mother was the most beautiful woman to have never graced the silver screen. The were truly a beautiful couple. Body, mind and spirit. The men on our block must have been jealous of him. Of course, I'm assuming here but they all had the same hair cut or should I say brush cut.

New heights

The chair seemed comfortable enough, that is if you were a man. My seat wasn't as comfortable. The barber’s chair was made kid friendly with aboard across the arm rests. It wasn't very friendly. In fact, it was a pain the ass. I sat on a hard piece of wood and even with added height he wasn’t happy with it and pumped the chair as high as it could go. I think I was the inspiration for the creation of the bobblehead. With every bouncing inch my head shook like a tennis ball stuck in the end of a slinky. This barber was starting to be a pain in the butt. Okay, the chair was starting to give me a pain in the butt.

The shop was a strange place, it smelt like tobacco and embalming fluid. The oversized mirrors revealed something that was not meant for a young boys’ eyes, the view of the bathroom and a picture of a nude pinup girl hanging from the inside of the door. The counter in front of me had jars of combs drowning in blue liquid aka embalming fluid. There were white towels hanging down, electrical cords hanging down and razors, and more razors everywhere. It look like the prop room for a horror movie. 

There was one other item on the counter.  Brylcreem; it was everywhere. Tubes and tubes of gooey goop. I sat there looking at my scared mug in the mirror, that's when I noticed he was sharpening his axe on a piece of leather hanging from the chair. My chair.  I was wondering why he draped me up in a plastic cloth. Apparently, in case he cut a major artery.

The waiting area had a few aluminum chairs, and a table littered with magazines. A collection of newspapers,  racing forms,  Field and stream, Popular Mechanics and I'm sure buried beneath a magazine with the torn out page of pinup girl now hanging in the can. There was a couple of guys who looked like gangsters reading a Windsor Raceway program chirping about their jughead picks. I didn't pay much attention until I had no choice but to do so. "Lift your chin up, stay still" the barber barked like he was a major in the army. He was a major alright. A major pain in the ass. His kept pushing my cheeks and forehead to keep me in place. I was a little nervous. Probably the sound buzzing in my brain caused by follicle chewing device once known as a electric razor.

When the buzzing stopped and the final scissor work was complete, I received a cranial massage with a big wad of  you guess it; Brylcreem. When he was finished I jumped off the high chair and thanked God it was over. The blood returned to my butt, and I even got a prize. A sucker. But I wasn't a sucker.  I did the math; hard ass equals hard candy. I guess it wasn't that bad of an experience.

We walked out and back home, a short walk, just two styling guys. Eat you heart out ladies. I never mention that nude picture or asked why it was hanging in the bathroom. I had survived my first haircut. It was just one of many trips to the barber shop to follow. Same barber, same picture and the same two by four.

I don't know when my mother decided that scissors and a bowl would be a better hair cutting option or why she thought my grandmother would be a better barber. Luckily, that only happened once. Not so lucky, the next day was picture day a school. I will leave you with two things. One, I don't look good in purple and two, I don't look good with bangs. Especially, when there cut a forty-five-degree angle. She couldn't follow the professional bowl cutters rule; if the bowl slips, don't cut! Sounds simple enough.  The perm thing, I didn't find out until the late eighties but that's another story. A very sad story.

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 My pics. Me and a bowl cut.