At the Barbershop
It’s an old-fashioned shop, crowded for a weekday, in a dying strip center, and I take a seat along the wall opposite the six barbers who divide their attention between working on their customers and watching an action movie on TV. There’s a lot of noise coming from the set, but I can’t see the screen since it’s positioned for viewing by those in the chairs and, of course, the barbers. I sense that most of those waiting are regulars. Centuries of tonsorial tradition dictate that they take priority over walk-ins. I’m new, so I sit and hope for an opening.
I’m reminded of barbershops from my childhood. Hair tonics and creams, pomades, waxes and astringents, sweet and pungent aftershave, witch hazel and musky colognes and other aromatic blandishments waft through the atmosphere of my memory. Then, tobacco smoke mixed with steam from hot towels and sounds of a brush mixing up a thick lather or the rasp of a straight razor on leather strop along with snatches of idle banter about weather, crops, politics, local gossip. Now, the hum of electric clippers and whine of blow dryers drown out the scissors, and I see one barber honing a razors blade in an electric sharpener next to a Thank You For Not Smoking Sign. Chemical lather comes from a machine. The TV discourages conversation. The only odor is a faint antiseptic scent coming from the beakers where the cutters keep their combs.
An older man, maybe in his seventies, thick without being fat, comes in and looks around critically. Although winter hangs on outside and it’s chilly, he’s wearing a lightweight white polo shirt over coral-colored putter pants and bright white sneakers with Velcro straps. No sweater or jacket. He has a full head of gray hair, not that shaggy, but a bit ragged around the edges. His cheeks are pink beneath light whiskers, and a strong chin gives way to mottled jowls. His watery blue eyes blink several times, as if he’s not used to the bright lights behind the barbers’ chairs.
“How long?” he asks generally.
The barber nearest him, whose name a laminated sign on the mirror reveals to be Dave, takes time out from arranging a thin comb-over on his customer and waves down the row of waiting clients. “Half-hour,” he says. “Give or take.”
The man checks his wristwatch, looks around again, sighs deeply and scowls, then makes his way to the chair next to me. He is trying to look sporty, but there’s not much bounce in his step. His age is betrayed by his hands that are covered in liver spots, shaking just a bit. His fingers are twisted slightly, and he’s missing two digits from his right hand.
I pick up a two-year-old National Geographic from the table and am leafing through it when he nudges me with an elbow and speaks in a loud whisper, “Lady barber.”
“What?” I ask.
He nods down the line of chairs, where a compact, attractive, fortyish brunette woman is close-cropping a tattooed teenager’s head. Her sign identifies her as J’Nell. “Lady barber,” he repeats. He watches her intently. She’s laughing with the kid. “You waiting for her in particular?”
“Uh, no,” I say. “I’ll take first available.”
He squints at her. “Never saw her before. She’s new.”
“I’m new,” I say.
“Used to know a whole bunch of jokes about lady barbers.” He winks at me. “All dirty.” He runs his maimed hand across his mouth, blinks rapidly and smiles. “Last time I had my hair cut by a lady barber, they shipped me off to Korea.” He stares at me. “What you think about that?”
“Really?” I say, not knowing how else to respond.
He nods, looks down the line at J’Nell. “Only time in my life I ever saw a lady barber. Think she was a WAC.” He shakes his head. “Fort Benning, Georgia. Nineteen forty-nine.”
“Year I was born,” I say.
“Last time I saw a lady barber,” he mutters, grinning slightly.
“They’re not that uncommon,” I say. “I see them all the time.” He looks at me narrowly, runs his eyes up and down my form. “In the mall—” I start.
“Those ain’t barbers” he says, annoyed. “They’re something else.” He looks at J’Nell. “Hair dressers or some damn thing. They ain’t barbers.” I offer no argument and return to my magazine. “Barber has to be licensed,” he says. “Hair dressers and the like, they don’t.”
I survey the row of barbers in front of me. I don’t see much difference in what they’re doing compared to a mall-style shop.
“Hair dressers and them,” he says, “can’t do the same things a barber can do.”
That made me curious. “Like what?”
“What the lady barber’s doing, for one thing,” he says. He reaches into a pocket and removes a long, thick cigar, unwraps it. I look and see that she’s lathered the teenager’s skull and is carefully shaving it with a straight razor. “Only a licensed barber can shave you,” he says. “Didn’t used to be that away, but is, now. Got to have a license to use a razor.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“Hairdresser can’t do that. Against the law. That’s why you don’t see a lot of lady barbers.”
“I see.” I didn’t.
“Got to go to a real barbershop for a shave. Got to have a license to do it.” He studies the cigar, running crooked fingers over it. “Barbers are like nurses. Got to be licensed to shave you.” He stares at me again. “What you think about that?”
I finger my beard. “I don’t usually get a shave.”
“Been shaved by both,” he says. “On the whole, I prefer nurses, when it comes down to lady shavers.” He grins at me and winks. “They know how to use a razor.” He holds up the cigar and looks at it. “Trouble is, you’re usually too sick to give a damn, time it gets down to a nurse shaving you.”
Dave glares at him. “No smoking,” he says.
The man touches the tip on his forearm. “Ain’t lit,” he says. Then he jams it into his mouth and speaks around it. “No fire, no smoke.” Satisfied, Dave returns to his customer.
“Goddamn it,” he speaks around the cigar. “Used to be, man come into a barbershop, he could smoke, cuss, do any damned thing he wanted.” He looks at me, evaluating. “Didn’t allow no goddamn women inside.” He puts a crooked finger alongside his nose. “Might even have a little drink of whiskey, you ask right. What you think about that?
“Another reason there ain’t many lady barbers.” He looks around. “It’s a man’s place.” He sighs. “Used to be. Mothers bring their kids for a haircut, they stayed outside on the sidewalk.” He wrinkles his brow, then adds, “Where they belong.”
He’s speaking too loud. Several people turn to look at him. J’Nell doesn’t notice, or pretends not to. He leans forward, fans through the magazines. “Had Argosy, Gent, Playboy, too.” He picks up a Golf Digest with dog-eared pages, throws it down on the pile. “Not a good titty rag in the bunch,” he mutters.
There are more glances at him. He ignores them. “Used to tell some jokes. Tell some stories. Good jokes. Now, you can’t say shit.” He rubs his eyes suddenly, then looks at the chair line and blinks. “Can’t use talc, either,” he says. “Can’t use the same brush on more than one person. Don’t have no brushes, no more. Love the feel of a camel-hair brush on my neck.” He shakes his head. “Shop I was in once down in Houston, guys brought in their own brushes, left them there with their names on them.” He gives me an intense look. “What you think about that?”
“Seems like a lot of trouble,” I say.
“Some things should just be left alone, far as I’m concerned,” he says. “Used to have a shoe-shine stand.” He nods toward the spot where the oversized TV sits on a metal table.
“Get your shoes shined while you wait.” He brightens, suddenly. With his good hand, he knocks on the metal chairs arm five times in a familiar rhythm. “Shave and a haircut,” he says, then knocks twice more. “Four bits.” He smiles. “Used to know a boy who’d do that with his rag every time he finished a shine. That’s how you knew he was done. He pantomimes the motion with his hands, as if using a cloth to shine the toe of a shoe. “Shave and a haircut,” he says in time with the movements. “Four bits.”
He puts his hands back into his lap. “Now, it’s twelve bucks, and no shine.” He raises his voice slightly. “No hot towels, either,” he says. “Another thing they can’t do, now.”
“Health codes, I guess,” I say.
He shakes his head. “Shoe shine went with a haircut and a shave. Don’t feel right not to get one.” I look down at his sneakers. His eyes follow mine. “Yeah, well,” he says.
I return to my magazine, and he continues to look around, turning his head, openly staring at people. Now and then he leans forward, looks down at J’Nell, rolls his cigar in his mouth. He elbows me. “You been overseas?” he asks.
“I, uh . . . I’ve been to England and—”
“I mean in the service. You been in the service?”
“Uh, no.”
“Didn’t think so,” he says, shaking his head. “Can always tell.” I look at the barbers, hoping for one to finish. “I was in Korea,” he says. “Korea.” He looks at his mangled hand, then at me. “No service?”
“I didn’t have to go,” I say.
“I sure as hell did,” he says, sitting back, shifting the cigar from one side of his mouth to the other. “Korea.” He closes his eyes. “Korea was a son of a bitch.”
“I’ve read about it,” I say. “I was just a baby.”
“What you think I was?” he says. “Right out of high school. Hard as a post and full of piss. Married. Two kids. Well, one. And one on the way.” His eyes cut across the room then back. “Didn’t know that, though. Not at the time.” He takes out the cigar and points it at me. “Good job. Machinist.” He looked at me intently, as if anticipating a denial. “Got drafted.” He sits back. “Come out of high school, joined the reserves, and fore I knew it, they drafted me for active duty. Harry Goddamn Truman snatched my ass up and shipped me to Korea. What you think about that?”
“I’ve read—”
“Didn’t give us no training,” he says, pointing the cigar into my face. “No goddamn boot camp, no training. Just two weeks of marching around, learning how to do pushups, salute, and tell a colonel from a corporal.” He sits back, chuckles, softly. “Wasn’t much difference there, I can tell you.” Then he scowls. “Give me a helmet and a rifle and put my butt on a train for Korea,” he says. “Had a lady barber cut my hair right when they shipped us out.” He looks down the line at J’Nell. “Just like that. Made us strip to our shorts right in front of a whole line of lady barbers—WACS, most likely—out there in Fort Benning. Then shipped us to San Francisco, California.” He shook his head. “Hell, I’d never been out of Tennessee. Never saw a lady barber before in my life. Never heard of one.” His eyes look off for a minute. “Didn’t even know where goddamn Korea was.” His eyes go far away for a second or two. “Wasn’t that sure about California.” He quickly looks down at J’Nell. “So there we was, naked as jaybirds, right there with a line of lady barbers. What you think about that?”
He smiles to himself. “Kid next to me was from New York City. Didn’t want to drop trow. Says, ‘Sarge, we got to strip down right in front of these broads?’ Sergeant says, ‘Them ain’t broads. Them’s barbers. They look at you, all they see is your rank.’ Then some other guy says, ‘Yeah, and you ain’t even a PFC.’ ”
He laughs loudly, then wipes his eyes. “Ain’t even a PFC!” he repeats. “Tickled me to death.”
I laugh, nod. “That’s funny,” I admit.
He takes out the cigar and wipes his mouth. “He wasn’t, either,” he says, chuckling, then scowls. “Anyway, they didn’t say a word, them lady barbers. Just sat us down and shaved our goddamn heads. Just like that.” He shakes his head. “Said we’d get lice, otherwise.” He snorts, replaces the cigar. “Lice, my ass. Lice don’t live at forty below.” He rolls the cigar in his mouth, speaks softly, “Nothing don’t live at forty below.”
“Where were you?”
He looks up, blinks as if seeing me for the first time.
“Korea. What I said. Twenty-third Combat Engineers.” His eyes dart away. “Engineers, shit. Give us rifles and put us on the line. That’s how much engineering we did.” He pulls the cigar out of his mouth. “Engineers, shit,” he says. “Jail bait. That’s all we was. Jail bait.”
“My father was a combat engineer,” I say. “World War II.”
“Don’t know about that,” he says, waving the cigar dismissively. “Korea was my war.”
He sits and stares straight ahead. I go back to my magazine when he sighs and speaks again. “Last thing I remember fore they shipped us out was that lady barber. She was a WAC, like I said. No uniform, though. Just a white smock. Red hair. Curly. Nice legs. Remember that.” He smiles. “Didn’t say shit. Didn’t smile. Didn’t even look at me. Just cut us close, shaved us off, and sent us to the train.”
The teenager in the chair laughs suddenly, and J’Nell laughs with him. She slaps him lightly on the shoulder, then towels off his head. The man studies them, then he turns again and looks at me. “When she shaved me, I got a woody,” he says in a loud whisper. “Last one I had for more than a year. What you think about that?”
Embarrassed, I shrug. “I guess—”
“Made me feel shameful as hell,” he says, sitting back. “Me married and all.” He looks down the line again. “She wasn’t that good a looker or nothing. Red hair. Curly. Nice legs. Green eyes, I think. But never smiled. Never knew her name.” He stares at his shoes for a beat or two. “But I sure thought about her.”
“I’m sure you did.”
“At forty below, you’re likely to think of anything.”
“I’m sure.”
“Engineers,” he says. “We was engineers.” He blinks. “Supposed to build a road. Didn’t. Just got shot at.” He holds up his hand. “Lost two fingers there.”
“You got shot?”
“No,” he says. He puts his hand down, uses the other to roll the cigar around. “I didn’t get shot.” He runs his hand suddenly through his hair. “Summertime,” he says suddenly. “Got hotter’n hell in the summertime. Hot as it was cold in the winter. Miserable hot,” he says, turning to look at me again. “They got bugs there they don’t even have names for, but they didn’t shave our heads again. What you think about that?” He stares at me hard, as if defying me to answer. “Hell of a note.”
“Tropical?”
“Tropical, my eye. Wasn’t no Mai Tais there. One day, I’m freezing my ass off, and the next, I’m sweating like a whore in church and can’t buy a decent haircut for love nor money.”
“Uh, couldn’t you cut it yourself?”
He looks at me, as if checking to see if I’m mocking him. “Myself?”
“Yeah, I mean cut each other’s hair? The men?”
“Colonel said no,” he says, getting it. “Said we’d look like a bunch of gooney birds.” He chuckled dryly. “You ever seen a gooney bird?”
“No, I can’t say—”
“Me, neither. But that’s what he said. Said he wasn’t sent halfway round the world to lead a bunch of gooney birds. So we wore our hair long.” He looks at my head. “Not that long,” he says. “Regulation. But long. No shaved heads. Said shaved heads was for jarheads and gooney birds. Same difference. We was engineers.” He sighs. “Hell of a note.” He takes out the cigar and studies it.
“Did you stay in the service?”
“Huh?” he looks at me, stuffs the cigar back into his mouth. “Oh. Hell, no. Did my hitch and got out.”
“Oh,” I say. “I see.”
“Did my hitch, lost two fingers, got out.” He looks at his maimed hand. “Went into business with my brother-in-law.” He looks at me. “Concrete business,” he says. “Always be a need for concrete.”
“I’m sure,” I say.
“Who’s next?” Dave asks as his customer pays. I see the teenager paying J’Nell at the other cash register down the line. Another customer is sitting down in her chair.
“He is,” the man says, jerking his cigar at me.
“You can go ahead,” I say. “You’re a regular.”
“It’s okay, sonny boy,” he says with a wink. “Think I’ll wait for the lady barber.”