Human Condition: Let's cut to the chase

My barber retired!

Not an earth-shattering event, I know, but he’d been cutting my hair for more than 25 years, and doggone it, what little hair I had left was badly in need of being cut. I hadn’t a clue where to turn.

I looked around this new-fangled, old-fashioned, Texas hometown I live in and settled on a place in one of our so-called village centers that's billed as the Village Barbers.

I walked tentatively toward the front desk of the six-chair shop and was met by a young lady sporting an impressive collection of tattoos and piercings. She told me they did accept walk-ins and assured me that a “stylist” would be with me shortly.

As I looked around and absorbed the loud music, I noted the stylists were all young and attractive women, most as equally tatted and pierced as the receptionist. Several of them had spiked hairdos in various neon shades to boot.

My stylist began by asking if I'd like a shampoo. I was somewhat taken aback, as I had never been asked this question since my Mom last broached the subject when I was but a young lad. Nonetheless, I mumbled something that sounded like "yes" and followed her to a reclining chair in front of a large sink. This was a totally new, yet not unpleasant, experience for me.

As I began to relax, and even enjoy the shampoo and scalp massage, my mind drifted back to the late 1950s and to a very different barber shop of my youth.

It was a small two-seat shop, owned by Mr. Joe and Mr. Leo, and located in a working-class suburb just south of New Orleans. It was nestled tight between an Italian grocery and a dry cleaner. My dad took me to get a haircut there seemingly every Saturday morning.

It was a friendly place, with two barber chairs arranged against the wall on the long axis of the shop. There was a mirror running full length along that wall, and below that was a shelf that held clippers, scissors, straight razors, brushes, hot lather machines, jars of Barbasol and other assorted implements.

A row of metal chairs, with chrome-steel supports and faux red leather seats and backs, were arranged along the other long axis. There was also a small coffee table and magazine rack, both always littered with a current edition of The Times-Picayune, as well as lots of not-so-current copies of Popular Mechanics, Sports Illustrated, Boy’s Life, Reader’s Digest and other well-read and dog-eared magazines.

A little higher up on the wall, another rack held several copies of Playboy. I wasn’t tall enough to reach or clearly see that rack, but was told that those magazines were for adults only and contained well-written, literary articles by popular writers of the time.

Oh, how the sights, smells and feel of that little shop came flooding back to me — the butch wax for the crew cuts that were so much in vogue; witch hazel; bay rum; the feel of that hot, steamy towel applied to the back of my neck after it had been shaved by a leather-stropped straight razor; the ritualistic application of talcum powder from a long-handled bristle brush — all finished off by the removal of the linen drape with a courtly flourish at the conclusion of the haircut.

The sounds of the place also echoed in my mind. Nothing special, just the casual, easy-going talk among my dad, the barbers and other local customers, as they discussed current events, swapped stories, told jokes, tall tales and maybe even a couple of outright lies.

I recall talk of the local college football team’s recent undefeated season and national championship; along with heated debates about the horses running at the Fair Grounds, the prowess of certain up-and-coming boxers, and the prospects of various professional football and baseball teams from faraway cities.

Closer-to-home topics were also enthusiastically discussed. Was anybody catching any shrimp? If so, where? Were the speckled trout and redfish biting in the Chef Menteur Pass, down at Shell Beach, or out in Lake Borgne?

I was soon roused from my musings by the stylist’s tap on my shoulder, as she held a mirror to the back of my neck and waited for me to pronounce my verdict on her tonsorial efforts. I examined my newly trimmed look carefully, told her that she had done an excellent job, and assured her that I would be back in six weeks or so.

I stepped out of the chair, took one last look around and couldn’t help but wonder if any of the folks in that trendy shop knew, or even cared, whether the speckled trout and redfish were biting down at Shell Beach or out in Lake Borgne.

— Ritter lives in The Woodlands, Texas.

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