Shave and a haircut

I love Barbershops, always have. I don’t know why. I never really gave it a lot of thought. But there must be a reason. I just seem to relax when I am in one. I walk through the door and I relax. If there is a line up, I relax even more. Where else on earth would you do that? Not at the bank, that’s for sure. Nor the post office or pharmacy either. In those places I just want to get out,as fast as I can. But at a barbershop I prefer a line. A line gives me leave to linger. To take a seat, to pick up a two year old Newsweek and to flip the pages and unwind. It’s a guy thing I think. I mean I never spent much time at the hairdressers to see if the women have the same kind of experience, maybe they do. I hope so. I love the barbershop.
The relationship that a man has with his barber is unlike his relationship with any other profession that we interact with. Take your Doctor for example. You never feel as relaxed with a Doctor as you do with your Barber. Doctors always seem to be judging you. Sizing you up. Have you put on weight? How’s your cholesterol? Have you been following your diet, taking your medication? Have you been sneaking a smoke? Judgmental, see? Like that. Same can be said for your mechanic. If something is wrong he looks at you like it was your fault. “If you wouldn’t ride the brakes the pads would last long!” Who needs it? Your tax guy is always going to point out something you could be doing to put more money away for a rainy day. Hell it’s pouring most of the time in my life.
But my Barber what is he going to do, get mad because my hair grew? No way. He is accepting. I wonder whether guys migrate to Barbering because they are of a certain, understanding disposition. Or is it the long hours on their feet with sharp objects poised above our throats that make them so. I have found most Barbers to be of such a temperament. Good listeners, good conversationalists. Perhaps the ones who are not just don’t survive. Maybe they fall by the wayside. Maybe the world of Barbering is a cut throat business. Uh, let me reword that. Perhaps the trade thins out the weak practitioners. In any case I have a lot of respect for Barbers. Good people.
Now this may date me or make me seem sexist but I must admit a preference toward a male member of the profession. I think it goes back to what I said about the whole thing being a guy thing. Typically, over the years I would arrive at the barber with a woman. When I was a kid it would be my Mom. Now it is with my wife. And when we would arrive and find a line up a smile involuntarily crosses my face. I proceed to a comfortable seat, close to the middle of the place, if possible. Close to the center of activity, the heart of the action, or inaction as the case may be. I wave of my female accompaniment “You go do your shopping check back in an hour.” I pick up a paper or an aging magazine. They are props. Merely there for looks. For once the women are gone, once the intrusion of our man cave is over the conversation resumes. Manly talk about manly things. Hockey, baseball, boxing, fishing, hunting anything manly really. We all revel in the time spent sharing guy stuff. It is a place we have to go to after all. If we go out to a bar or a buddy’s house we arouse suspicion and resentment the moment we walk through the door. We are on a timer and the women no matter how understanding are watching the clock the whole time. Be even five minutes later than the time that she expected you and you will never hear the end of it. Want to know what that time is? The arbitrary time that your significant other has determined and which she expects you to be exactly on time for? Well take the shortest amount of time you can imagine staying and divide that by a factor of four. That’s about it. But when you stroll into a Barbershop that is a beehive, on say a Saturday afternoon or a weekday evening and you can relish in a stolen hour. Stolen and totally guilt free. You have to be here, she doesn’t want you looking shabby does she?
There is a hedonistic aspect to it too. There are pleasant sights and smells in a Barbershop. There is the feeling of the chair. You sit in the barber’s chair and you recline. A fresh piece of tissue around your neck. The chair pumped up, you are elevated above the crowd of men waiting for the same pampering. You are special and you can show it, you are above all the other seated men in the room. Your Barber, your special servant is pampering you. He reclines the chair and runs a comb through your hair. No one else ever does this for you. Except when you were a kid and your mother would wet your fair before school. On Sundays she would put some of your father’s Brylcream in it, making you feel grown up. He asks you how you want it cut, but he already knows the answer. You have only to say about four words and the business part of this transaction is all but over. That is what makes this relationship so unique. When you see your Doctor you never know what He or She will say. What revelation they will make what horrible thing they will diagnose. With the aforementioned mechanic there is always the threat of a big expensive bill. But with you Barber, no surprises, you know where you stand and how much it will cost.
The whole process is tactile and satisfying. The pleasant buzz of the clippers, so more sedate than the whine of a dentist’s drill. The warm feel of the trimmer on your neck. The soothing balm of the hot lather and the tingling scrape of the straight razor. The pleasant smells of the tonics and the bright colors of the liquids in the various old fashioned bottles. The Barber’s world is one with much to stimulate all the sense. The conversation is good and is varied enough to allow most men something to say. Even if you are not a sports fan you have merely to listen to the sports the day before to have an opening gambit. “How about those Habs?” “When will So and So pack it in? He’s way past his prime.” In the Barbershop everyman is an expert and all have the right to an opinion. In many ways it is the most democratic institution ever.
I have been across this country from east to west and north to south. I have had haircuts in Yellowknife, Winnipeg, Vancouver, Edmonton Halifax and Whitehorse. In fancy boutiques and in Barber training schools. But there is one place to which I aways return. Always that is until Yesterday, Friday June 25th 2010, for that is when my favorite Barber and my friend George Wotten of Clarks Barbering and Hairstyling hung up the trimmer for good. George and I go way back. He has been cutting my hair since I was a kid. More than forty years. I must confess that it doesn’t take much time anymore; I don’t have a lot to cut anymore. In fact my friend Shane is always encouraging me to “Give it up!” and shave my head. The biggest reason I never did is that it is my only membership card into the joys of the haircut. The pleasures of the chair and the shop. A link to the bond George and I have shared these five decades. He has cut the hair of three generations of my family. Four generations of many other families. His little shop is a hole in the wall in a strip mall that has seen many changes over the years. Let’s start with the name. You may have remarked that George’s surname is Wotten while the shop he owns is called Clark’s. Forty four years ago George left his native P.E.I. and came to Dartmouth Nova Scotia, my home town, to work for his Uncle and learn the trade. The shop was on Portland Street in those days, closer to the downtown area. Times changed. Downtowns died and the suburbs prospered. George was young and forward looking. Malls were springing up and he saw the writing on the wall. He set up shop in the K-Mart mall in Westphal at precisely the time that my Barber was retiring. I say my barber but I was about seven so I had little say in the matter. George was close and he was good, enough said.
The shop changed little over the years, a neat row of seats. Three chairs at it’s’ height with a fourth in a room at the back where women could get a set. But mostly it was a guy place. Over the years the walls became adorned with photos of local sports stars whose hair George had deftly cut. Like I said it was a guys place. There was a glass case with some hair products for sale and some antique hair cutting tools. George went about his business quietly building a good clientele with a reputation for good haircuts at a fair price. He has a great smile and remembers almost everything. Even if I don’t need a haircut I would stop in. Outside the shop the world turned, and morphed and the big box stores came and went. The K-Mart became a Canadian Tire. Canadian Tire became Sobeys. In George’s little corner of the mall the fish got bigger, the Leafs still disappointed and shot that took the trophy buck got further and further. No matter where I roamed, no matter who cut my flair, whether it was a good, honest man cave or a barber shop or some frilly froo froo place that gave unisex designs, I still had a place to come home to. A sanctuary. In this changing world that is no small feat.
Well at about 7pm Atlantic Daylight Savings Time last night that all ended. I couldn’t resist calling George on the day. I couldn’t let it go by without a word to an old friend. I am not the only one. The local news “Live at Five” showed up for an interview and while there another old customer Premier Darrel Dexter showed up to pay his respects. How many mechanics of Doctors get that treatment when they retire? Not many I suspect. There truly is something special about the bond between a man and his Barber. I wished George the best. He really deserves a long, healthy and happy retirement. All those years of long days standing on his feet cutting hair are over. I must find another sanctuary, another man cave to crawl into. I must find someone else to pump up the chair and make me feel special. I will not need to feel guilty as I have low these many years whenever I slunk into another Barber’s shop. But I will always compare that individual to George; he will always be the benchmark, the non plus ultra. I should have asked him the sixty four thousand dollar question, nature or nurture. Are real Barbers born or do they become that way from years of hard work. I think I already know the answer I suspect it is a bit of both.