As a small child, I recall my Dad taking me to the barber
shop where the barber lugged out a pedal car, in the shape of a fire truck,
mounted on an apparatus to serve as a child’ chair. There, I got my first snip not without
tears. This experience wasn’t painful;
rather, it was scary with all the noises and activity.
And, it wasn’t long until the haircut trek was made solo on
my trusty bicycle. I learned early in
life that a good haircut was one that could not be identified as a new
haircut. That secret was with the
barber, which meant forging a bond with the one who knew what to do without
much instruction. That is called
‘talent.’
Indeed, I would literally stride into the shop, wait for my
barber, and be magically transformed from a shaggy imp into a presentable human
being.
One day, following the trim, I was introduced to something
of an epiphany – a hot shave. My talented barber lathered me hot
shaving cream and, while my stubbles were warming and softening, he was honing
his straight razor on a leather strop.
Once again in life, I was frightened.
Once safe after the shave and pleased I didn’t succumb to
exsanguination, I realized I was missing something special in my life – hot
shaves.
All that changed when I made my career relocation and moved
four-hundred miles away. Now the process
had to begin again. Evidently, barbers
working below the Mason-Dixon Line have never
heard of hot lather shaves. Alas.
Close proximity doesn’t necessarily translate into a quality
hair cutter. Just as with that old
question: What do you call a doctor who graduated last in his class? “Doctor.”
Barbers, too, have a learning curve to become better than
simply being able to differentiate between a comb and scissors. It’s too bad they use me to try to change
that curve.
Eventually I found a neighbor who worked at a women’s hair
salon who passed the novice stage and needed side money.
This was the first experience I had with a woman getting
that close to me with a sharp object.
Sure, it was frightening, but no more so than when I last rode in that
fire truck back in paragraph two.
She did a fine job and remained my barber for years. No waiting, no inane talk about sports, and
drinking a cold beer seemed very civilized.
The end result was not a good haircut.
It was a great haircut.
Moving to The Eastern Shore forced me to find yet another person who was able to meet my grooming expectations. After going through several, I found one.
Although the hot shaves were gone, I still looked good. Evidently, hot shaves were phased out
sometime while I was getting the neighbor salon treatment. But, I finally found a shop that gives me all
the service including the warm lather - except the cold beer.
Today, I received another haircut and shave without arguing
with the barber who was a woman working in a barber shop. This may be my new barber shop. She even offered me a massage. Yep, I was frightened once again.
