I am ashamed to say I have let my hair grow a little long lately. Part of the reason why is the inconvenience of going by a barbershop to get clipped. Another perhaps larger part, is my reluctance to part with my locks. I also got to thinking about the evolution of the barbershop, which is, of course, no longer called a barbershop. Now it is called a hair salon, and the barber is now called a stylist. Being called a stylist lets you charge twice as much.
My earliest recollection of barbershops comes from a time in the early 60’s when my dad took me to the barbershop to get a flattop. For those in the younger generation, the flattop was the haircut of choice in small town Texas of the 60’s. I have to admit, I did not like the do. I don’t think my head was right for it. You see, I have big ears, I have always had big ears. When you have big ears and a flattop, people around you come up with clever quips like, “Here’s a magic feather, let’s see you fly,” but back to the subject of barbershops.
Early on, when you went into a shop you could count on certain things one was the candy-striped pole just outside the shop, another was the big metal chair that was slightly intimidating and somewhat exciting at the same time to a small child. You could also count on the fact that beside the chair was hanging a large leather razor strap. My dad would always tell me, in his politically correct way, that this strap was there to beat kids who didn’t sit still. I think I believed that until I was twenty-six. In any case I never moved, not even to breath. So consequently I never told the barber what kind of haircut I wanted. The barber would always say, “You wanna flattop kid?” and I would just nod then close my eyes cause I knew the magic feather was coming.
There was a good thing about the barbers of the day, along the back wall of the shop there seemed to be a couple of hundred bottles of hair tonic, each one with a different fragrance, for some reason even in the macho days of the sixties, guys who wouldn’t think of putting anything on that smelled less manly than barbeque sauce would think nothing of splashing rose-scented hair tonic all over his head. I always had them put a handful of some tonic on my head even though I had very little hair left to benefit from the tonic. I might look funny but at least I would smell … good.
Later, the longhair trend of the seventies saved me from my elephant ears. I have seen a lot of different hairstyles in my life. I have even lived long enough to see the return of the flattop, who knows why, but as for me, I preferred the long haired look, because even today I have a bit of fear about someone offering me that feather again. I don’t really miss barbershops that much because I still have some concerns about that strap, but I do miss the hair tonic. I wonder, maybe if I rub flowers on my head.
