(art by Jodi Estes)
The man who cuts my hair has been cutting hair for fifty-two years.
The barbershop he works in looks like it came straight out of The Andy Griffith Show; as if it were frozen in time. An old black and white western is playing on the small TV in the lobby above a cardboard cut-out of John Wayne. The episode is called “Blood in the Dust” starring Claudette Colbert. I have never been much of a fan of Westerns, though they remind me of my Great-Uncle Richard, a quiet man who loved Hopalong Cassidy and John Wayne. As a kid, I remember seeing a Western on TV and bursting into tears when the Native Americans were shot.
An old Blondie comic strip that someone cut out of the newspaper is tacked to one of the walls. It’s about Dagwood getting a haircut, of course. A Norman Rockwell calendar hangs on the wall. A framed newspaper story about the barbershop opening in 1968, the same year I was born, hangs on a wall. I learn from it that a Motorola Color TV was $399.95. There are local newspapers on a table in the waiting area.
Even the barber chairs are old school. It smells of hair tonics, shaving cream and witch hazel.
While I’m there, the phone rings. It rings! It’s not a cellphone but a landline. And not just a landline but a rotary phone. The kind my grandparents had.
I am not one of those people who are nostalgic for the past. I don’t believe in a gentler, simpler time because they weren’t for everybody.
The reason I began coming to this barbershop was because my Father loves it. It’s one of the few places where he will hold a conversation with someone. This is rare feat because of his dementia. The last time I brought him in for his haircut, he talked with Charles for thirty minutes. It all began with my Father telling him, “When I was a boy, my dad used to cut my hair.” This led to he and Charles talking about their boyhoods. One thing that struck me as they were talking was how Charles told how he grew up in a home with no electricity and no indoor plumbing. “We didn’t have a lot,” he told my Father, “but we were grateful for what we had. I think too many folks today have a lot but appreciate very little.” Contentment was an interesting topic to bring up with my Father, who has never once been content in his life. He has spent his whole life trying to find this in money, possessions, travel and marriages. Sadly, his dementia has heightened the worst parts of his personality including his continuous discontentment: with his life, with me. The latter he expresses often.
As a boy, my Father never got a new bicycle. It was always hand-me-downs. Even though his family was poor, he felt like he was not worth a new bicycle. That has been how he has seen himself his entire life. Even when he was doing well for himself and traveling around the world. Even when he had our family.
Though these two men (my Father and Charles) are not that far apart in age, they are a great chasm apart in nature and outlook on life.
Charles is a soft-spoken, congenial man who does not hurry, does not rush, but takes his time clipping and cutting one’s hair. As he does, he enjoys conversing with whomever is in his chair. Sitting there, I asked him, “What has kept you cutting hair for so long?” In this day and age, it’s rare to find someone who has stayed at a job for a long time, especially not for over fifty years.
“Well now,” he said, stopping his cutting, “I’ve just always really loved what I do. I don’t look at it as just hair to cut on heads. Everyone is different. Everyone has a story. Some tell it in words. Some don’t. Some tell it in other ways. In their silences. In their expressions.” He paused, “When folks talk to me, I don’t judge them. I just listen. Folks need to be heard.”
I thought about how rare it is in this world to find listeners. People want to be heard but few seem to want to take the time to truly listen to another.
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