I am always very happy after I get a haircut. Most women I know are never happy after a haircut. My head is lighter and cooler. Why not be happy about it! Where I get my hair done includes a wash, a quick head massage and a nice cut. One of the great joys is seeing all the hair fall down on that apron they put on us. There seemed to be more hair on the floor than could have possibly come off my head.
My dad's stepfather was a barber, well, actually he was a bootlegger but cutting hair had a nice store front. He made a big deal out of that apron setup. He had a paper ring that he placed tightly around my neck. He then snapped that apron on as it floated across my little body. It had snaps and folds that seemed to have no purpose. It even had a pocket that hair would fall in to. He would ratchet me up to eye level with a foot pedal and then he would get out the clippers. I was old enough to know that clippers were not used for styling. I would yell, Mr. Smitty, mom does not want me to have a buzz; she says I am too cute for that "Deliverance" look. I could never understand what Smitty was saying anyway but he laughed and put the clippers away. He cut my hair with the scissors and he kept mumbling about "damn women" and "tellin him what to do".
Finally he said, "Now, I think you are old enough for your first shave!" Shave, I was seven years old and had been waiting for hair on my pocket monster, not my face. I had watched him shave many people from the tiny half window in the living room back in his house. Through this window you could see the entire barber shop. It was his lookout for the revenuers I guess. Smitty was recovering from his third major heart attack. He could not stand for long periods of time so he leaned on the chair. His hands shook a great deal. My shave started with the lather. This was some mystical junk that he mixed up in a cup and with the first brush the Fuller Brush Man ever sold. He would slather it on my face, up my nose around my ears and under my chin. Then out came the razor. No stinking safety razor for Smitty, nope, it was a straight razor. I was four inches from cold blue death and his hand was shaking like a paint mixing machine at Walmart. I could feel the air currents generated by the twitching of the blade. He said, "Do this with your mouth" and he pulled his chin down and made a circle with his lips. I thought this was so I could not scream in his face while I bled to death.
As the blade touched my skin, his hand miraculously stopped shaking and I could feel the pressure from the blade running across my skin. As he paused or changed areas, the blade would start twirling like a helicopter but once on the skin, it was smooth sailing again. Trying to get at the hair inside my nose and ears was an experience of facial distortion and trust. He said in a gruff voice, "I always had trouble with chins. I hate chins". I said, how do you feel about seven year old boys? "Never had much use for kids of my own, but as long as they stay still, they are OK."
Smitty really did not have much use for kids. I think he had a daughter somewhere though. He liked me I am told. He said I was different. My mom said, "That is for sure". I told my older brother about the hair cut and the shave but he must have been jealous because he did not say anything. I enjoyed those haircuts and running my hand through my brother's buzz cut. Thanks Smitty.
No comments:
Post a Comment