I watched the fatherless boy squirming in the barber chair last week. His dark hair was thick and pointed in all directions like a multifaceted crown. He lifted his shoulders to his ears and smiled toothlessly into the mirror while the crowd behind him talked. The owner of the barber shop patted him on the shoulder as he walked by. It's not like getting a haircut is a big deal.
Right?
But a child's first haircut is a parent's photo-op. We store that piece of first-cut hair in baby books and specially noted envelopes. For some reason, hair becomes a keepsake.
I've read historical letters in which admirers request a lock of hair from famous people such as George Washington, Abraham Lincoln, or Elvis. Still, maybe a haircut isn't so much a big deal as it is an American ritual.
Every culture has its rituals, even in secular life. We cheer our athletic teams and wear their colors proudly. We teach our young to fish. We have inherent patterns in how we eat.
And we get haircuts.
The ritual is simple enough. Find a barber you like and drop in, if allowed, or set up an appointment. Plop down in one of those easy, comfortable chairs. Stare at yourself in a mirror as scissors snap around your ears. Feel the goodness of a close neck shave. Dust off, pay the bill, spend the rest of the day picking stray, itchy hairs from your clothing. Ritual.
As a child, I remember how big the barber chairs felt and I remember the reward for good behavior--a piece of Dubble Bubble bubblegum in its individually wrapped goodness. In college, I went to a strip-mall tonsorium when I had time and money. Three former military barbers stood sentinel behind their chairs and waited on customers. They flashed their scissors like knives and spoke long soliloquies with non-mobile toothpicks jabbed in the corners of their mouths. Rarely engaging the customer, they cut away with electric razors and sharp edges until they decided they'd done enough and then they'd pull a long hose from a ceiling-mounted vacuum cleaner to suck all the loose hairs off clothes and ear lobes.
Once, the suction formed a perfect connection to my inner ear and pulled. I lost my hearing for an hour.
As a young adult, I was a disciple of Mr. Mackey on Kavanaugh. Talk about a barber. When I needed a haircut, I'd drive by his converted gas station of a shop and count how many cars were out front. If not too many, I'd drop in and listen to the conversation. He'd talk about politics. He'd share where the fish were biting. He'd refuse to get wound up about sports but always knew the scores. Mr. Marcus Mackey had earned a bronze star in Korea and used the GI Bill to attend barber school. He cut my hair the day before my wedding. My fiancée sent along my best man to make sure I didn't follow through with a half-hearted threat of a flat top.
I enjoyed Mr. Mackey's company much more than he enjoyed mine. The ritual highlighted the passage that exists between a wealth of experience and a willing listener. I'd prod him to tell me stories. One of my favorites, and I hope I remember it correctly, is the time he and his wife agreed not to vote in a Cammack Village election since they were going for the opponents and would cancel each other's vote out.
Mr. Mackey whispered as he told me, "Then, you know what happened? It rained on election day. I didn't have any customers coming in and I thought I'd go home early. I drove by our polling place and there were no cars out front. I thought, what the heck. I'll pop in and vote." So, he did.
The next day's paper listed his candidate as winning by one vote.
Today, there seems to be a general longing for more fulfilling experiences, even for something as mundane as a haircut.
I admit I'm moved when I hear stories of barbers who donate their time for free cuts to kids like the dark-haired boy I saw just last week. V's Barber Shop on Cantrell Road offered a Father's Day cut at no charge to those in the foster-care system and their foster fathers. Packing the barber shop, foster families enjoyed seeing one of their small tasks handled in a community setting.
The littlest kids perched on booster seats, swallowed by barber capes, smiling toothless smiles, received royal treatment. It was a nod to the child and a pat on the back to the foster father. The families stayed long after the cuts were over and visited with other families. The dark-haired boy, though out of place in terms of family, found the comfort of common experience there. When finished, he ran to the arms of his foster father, proudly showing off his new trim.
A haircut may be a luxury to most of the world, but it's a luxury steeped in ritual here. It can be an important transmission of experience coupled with that unique good feeling right after a fresh cut. There's just something more than appearance at stake. There's a sense of shared purpose. And shared purpose, no matter how small, is a big deal.
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Steve Straessle, whose column appears every other Saturday, is the principal of Little Rock Catholic High School for Boys. You can reach him at [email protected].
Editorial on 06/15/2019