JUST A LITTLE OFF THE TOP & WATCH THE EARS

by Uncle Pahgre

“Omnibus notum tonsoribus.”
(Every barber knows that).
– Horace
“This is a man’s world.”
– James Brown

(San Juan Horseshoe September 25, 2014) Did you ever wonder where James Brown got his hair cut? Was it in some fastidious beauty salon in Atlanta or New York, or some dusty, corner barber shop along the Salkehatchie in his home state of South Carolina?
We presume he went to the barber shop — a place where those of his gender can let relax and converse in one of the few male havens not under siege by the righteous forces of political correctness.
Most of the people who pay attention to the comings and goings in this country have expressed concern over the direction it is headed. They have used terms like breakdown of traditions, social decay, moral collapse and detachment in a futile attempt to categorize just why we can’t all get along. History tells us that the ancients had similar concerns. One of the first references to barbers (barbe translates as beard in Latin) was in Rome, where barber shop was hallowed as a place of gossip and discussion.
The surviving social icons become even more important when we consider the homogenization of life and they mass-hype that is becoming inherent to our culture. We need something to hold onto. We need something constant, something real and consistent, like the corner barber shop.
Hey, we know there are plenty of these hideouts left all over the country but we also know that most of these redoubts are squarely in the path of progress. Someday all the scissors in the world will be wielded by some McDonaldlike hair cutting corporation in New York or Chicago. Straight razors will come with warnings and disclaimers. That barber that boys knew as a kid will be gone, his son selling paint at Wal-Mart. Stop.
Most males that have evolved past rudimentary stone age thinking are aware that this is not a man’s world. Why would men want it? James Brown is simply taking poetic license, isn’t he, or did he lose that too in another scrimmage with the cops?
Our only contention is that barber shops are healthy, nostalgic escapes for males. Since men make up roughly 47% of the current population, it stands to reason that what’s good for the goose is good for the gander.
Most men would rather get a good follicle chop at the hands of a tobacco chewing ex-Marine than go under the scissors of some bimbo who doesn’t even know the Dodgers left Brooklyn. Sorry, but sometimes the truth takes no prisoners.
I remember the first time my father brought me to the barber shop on a Saturday morning and I was accepted into the inner sanctum. It was my bristly coming out party, a babe in the barber chair, my one-and-only whiskered debutante ball. No women were allowed, not even a nurse who might bandage up a sliced ear or heaven help us, an botched Adam’s Apple.
Speaking of nurses, did you know that the barber pole represents the bandages wrapped around a barber chaired patient prior to bloodletting? Barbers were surgeons before King Henry IIIV prohibited such procedures. He also forbade surgeons from barbering. For centuries barbers had to make ends meet by cutting hair and pulling teeth. Finally the law was rescinded during the reign of George II. 17th century barber, Jacques Jasmine, supplemented his income by singing to patrons. A Provencal poet, he is known as the last of the Troubadours. He is also known as the Father of Barber Shop Quartets, or at least we think so.
Saturday morning was never like this. Imagine a little kid, primed for a buzz cut, swimming in that giant revolving chair. The barber wraps tissue paper (also known as barber paper) around his neck, followed by a draping in a semi-immaculate, often pin-striped sheet. Then he looked at the dad for instructions anxiously waiting for the word buzz. Then the scissors flew. (Editor’s note: If the child in question had the devastating fortune of going to the barber shop with his mother this subtle exchange never happened and the language was sterile. The unfortunate experience was known to have led to serious psychological problems down the road.)
But in this man’s world, customers spoke freely, spit tobacco and passed wind, making no attempt to edit their colorful language. I’m sure 90% of the boys who grew up in the Fifties learned to curse in barber shops. A clandestine pile of dirty books was stored under the Popular Mechanics and the Sports Illustrated, the latter still years away from its heralded swim suit issue. Etiquette, if you weren’t shaving age, was to keep your trap shut unless someone asked you something.
Witch Hazel was in the air. Personalized shaving mugs hung from above the mirror. We even had an altruistic trimmer who would make lots of scissor noise above the heads of bald customers, whack the curly locks off wailing babies and marvel at the manly sideburns thriving in the pre-pubescent peanut gallery.
The Cincinnati Reds were on the radio and everyone smoked at least three cigars at the same time. Sure, some of the ball games were on TV but barbers hated TV since they couldn’t watch a double play unfold and administer a symmetrical flat-top at the same time without a one act taking the backseat.
The conversation between barber and customer was sacred, like the lawyer-client or priest-confessor privilege. It ran from politics to romance to cars to sports. One always knew he had made conversational strides when the barber kept talking, after the sheet was removed and the Brylcream applied.
One sullen barber, who has probably been six feet under for some time, was famous as a roustabout. He had been carrying on a romance with the bottle since his twenties. The inside joke in our barber shop was to yield to a newcomer when that barber’s chair opened up, especially if he needed a shave. Soon that straight razor looked like a wobbly guillotine, the prestigious and effective hair loss apparatus employed during the later stages of the French Revolution. Lord only help the customer who wanted his nose and ear hairs trimmed too.
In the Italian barber shops young barbers were instructed to shave everyone around the ears and neck. It was believed that this service insured the growth or healthy hair there and invited repeat business when the customer got older. That, according to our reliable source, is why so many older Italian men have tufts of hair on their necks. Ask the shoe shine boy.
From ducktails to dreadlocks barber shops have been a part of our culture since the Sumerians first invented scissors. Remember Figaro, the Barber of Seville. What about Floyd Larson, Mayberry’s main male gossip? These guys knew how to celebrate life’s small treasures. The King of Kansas City knew all about it too when he sang: …I got credit down at the grocery store and my barber tells me jokes. Try that tune the next time you check out at City Market or visit the hairstylist, the only rooster in the hen house.
– Kashmir Horseshoe