Shave and a Haircut

There were two barbershops in Vivian when I was growing up. My friend Rod lived up the street and his dad Coy owned one of them. When I was old enough to start getting my hair cut by myself, I began frequenting Rod’s dad. Before then, I always went with my Dad and his instructions to the barbers were always to cut my hair short – I mean very short.

I had a hybrid crew cut – flattop until I went away to college. It wasn’t even much of a flattop, more of a cowlick just above my forehead. I usually left the barbershop with only about a quarter-inch of hair on the top, hair pointing skyward with the help of a liberal dose of butch wax that was sticky and smelled bad.

College separated me from Dad and I was able to let my hair grow for the first time in my life. For me it was a liberating experience. When I met Anne, she introduced me to Tony, her stylist and one of the best hair cutters in the world. He kept my hair in top shape for years.

Last year, the oil business became so hectic that I had little time to make an appointment for a haircut two weeks in advance so I began dropping in to the local barbershop instead. I went today and the look and feel of the old shop sent waves of nostalgia coursing through my memory.

There were four barber chairs in the place - all antiques - seated firmly amid the floor’s black and white tile. The barber buzzed my hair with his clippers, and then shaved me with a straight razor lubricated by hot foam. He finished by slicking my hair back with a glob of sticky pomade.

My Dad is in a rest home now and they have a professional stylist on staff. Last time I visited, his hair looked like that of a pampered movie star preparing for a possible Oscar-winning role.

My Dad now has a well coiffed head of hair, not a strand out of place. Meanwhile, I’m trying to wash the goop out of my own hair as I wonder what I look like. I guess we’ve come full circle.

Louisiana Mystery Writer