Lid Lift

There were two barbershops in my hometown.

They were complete with striped poles out front and big heavy metal and padded leather chairs with foot pedals to pump clients' heads to eye level for the barbers, and for kids, a leather padded board that rested across the two arms of the barber chairs so the short in height and of years would sit on that board, their feet on what was the chair seat for adults.

Both shops were on main street, the same side, but separated by about the total distance of what was then the business district. Each had three or four chairs each, with each chair in turn facing a wall covered in mirrors and with shelves at the bottom end of the mirrors. Those tall, multi sided bottles (with metal domed tops complete with hole through which a large swizzle stick rod sat) filled with coloured disinfecting liquid were prominent, as well, brimming with combs and scissors. Electric clippers hung on hooks on the ends of the shelves, their heavy cloth insulated cords snaking to electrical outlets above the mirrors. There were, along the remaining walls, chairs lined where those waiting for haircuts sat until it was their turn -- pre-set appointments for a haircut? Puhleeze!

Both barbershops were also adorned with regulars, men who were there, presumably most all day long, not for haircuts, but for the company and man gossip (or silence) that went with the places. These were the same men I presume that moved between the barbershops and the pool hall until it was a reasonable hour to either go home for dinner or move to a familiar chair in one of the two hotels -- The Coronation or Royal Inn. (One owner of the pool hall famously had hiccups for months. Occurring before I was born the hiccups were still talked about decades later).

Before anyone climbed into one of the chairs, the barber would whip the seat with a towel, clearing away any hair left from the cut that came before.

Perhaps the most memorable thing for me about the barbershops was the intense rivalry that existed between the two. One either went to one shop, or the other, not both -- unless maybe you were one of the ministers or the mayor. My father always took us to Baldy's, while my friends down the street and their father went to Lloyd's (both first names -- the former, a nickname although I'm sure I never knew his real first name even though I went to school with his kids). Despite the competitive atmosphere I was in Lloyds on occasion 'cause my father tended to ignore (either naturally or because his job fixing furnaces and propane fired appliances took him into everyone's home or shop anyway) such boundaries. But while I visited both shops, I ONLY got my hair cut by Baldy.

After the fact I understand it was most likely Baldy created the tense rivalry. At one point he ran for mayor and I don't recall the specific thing it was but he embarrassed himself profoundly with an inappropriate competitive response on the night he lost that had tongues wagging for a very long time.

My memory is a wonky thing. I was certain I had brush cuts (ordered as a requirement of living in his house by my father) until I was nearly 20 years old. But I'm looking at a photo next to my desk of the time when I would be in grade 8 or 9 and I have hair nearly on my shoulders as was the fashion in the era that also has me wearing blue plaid bell bottoms in the picture. So, let me just say that for most of my existence to say 10 or 11 years of age (at least) a haircut for me was to have my head shaved. Shaved, yes, but also shaped for we all had flat tops, our heads squared off by the precise application of Baldy and his electric shavers. I can still feel the delicious tickle massage of the vibrating shaver as it ran up the back of my neck. Hmmmmm, better even than the vigorous head massage my mother would give when shampooing our heads over the kitchen sink.

The other wonky thing about my memory is that while I had to have had nearly countless visits to that barbershop (even if meager resources meant waiting as long as possible between haircuts, buzz cuts require pretty regular maintenance) I can really only recall all of those trips as a single visit. I was a "queer wee lad" (if only she'd know ) in my mother's words, by which she meant a nervous/frightened wee lad. I'm guessing that's all that was behind my fear of the barber. But, I remember sitting on that red-leather upholstered board in the big barber chair, hiccupping with tears -- almost certainly the end of a wailing journey of resistance resulting from my father's Saturday morning announcement that we were going to Baldy's. But the fear in my memory seems only to apply to the anticipation, with enjoyment coming with the actual barberin'.

My hair is so fine that even with a flat top it falls down and plays dead against my forehead. The smell is strong still in my nostrils, just thinking about the hair stick. Packaged like a round deodorant stick of today the hair version was greasy wax. Grabbing the back of my head with one hand, my mother would plunge the hair stick at my forehead with an upward movement so that the wax cylinder of goop would "spop" against my head and then glide along and hold in place, like a mat of close cropped grass, my incredibly short bangs. Along with the smell I can still feel the tightness of having one's forehead waxed in the process. Luckily that was only on Sundays, for church. And like the haircuts, that process would have been regular (every Sunday -- 'cause we never missed church) yet I remember it happening just once, and very specifically. I'm wearing a two tone tweed jacket -- which would have been worn for the first time in the '50s by my older brother, if not before by someone else given the jacket was likely used before it came to our family. I'm standing in the large closet of the room that was my older brothers' and my mother is telling me to stop squirming so she can wax my hair. I had a brown, clip-on tie too, that was too short for me. And the pants were "floods," even at that age and there are holes in the heels of my socks where I can feel the sticky cold of the insoles of my shoes.

I got a haircut this past Saturday. And got my money's worth. For what's gotta be coming on two years I've had long hair. Well it's gone now. Nothing longer than maybe 2 or 3 inches in places now. In the words of my boss, "... the hippie's gone."

He Who is Here Now is beside himself with the cut -- as he hates long hair. As his very Korean boss said after meeting me: "He's too pretty to be a boy." Not a compliment from a Korean, btw, and directed most specifically in its vieled judgement at my hair length.

Hair length was a big thing in my childhood home. There were major fights that usually sounded like this: "Get yer hair cut or get out of MY house." Hilariously, as I sat down next to my mother at Christmas (with my hair at it's longest) and leaned in to kiss her, she groaned with a Scot's guttural emphasis, "Awwwwk, get yer hair cut, fer heaven's sake!"

Oh well, it's hair, you can always get it cut, or if that doesn't turn out, give it a couple of weeks and it'll grow back. At least for most of us...