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Roy the Barber
When I was a kid, going to the barbershop was a special occasion. Opening the
door and walking past the red and white striped pole was like entering a secret
and forbidden temple; a universe where old men gathered to talk about politics
and women and complain about how things were never as good as they used to be.
I marvelled at the man in the white apron as he swiped his razor across the
leather belt, honing the blade to deadly sharpness before shaving off the
whiskers of one of the neighbourhood men in deft strokes of his wrist. His name
was Roy, and all over town the name "Roy the Barber" was spoken with respect and
a sense of reverence.
When Roy called you over to his chair it was like being summoned to the altar of
a high priest. You carefully hoisted yourself up onto the hulking chair, an
enormous throne with enough chrome embellishments to make a '57 Cadillac green
with envy. You sat upon the black leather seat and gazed out over the sea of old
men, the glare from the sun shining off of their bald crowns. They would wink at
you, saying something like "you better not squirm, kid, or old Roy just might
cut your ear off". You knew they were only joking, or maybe just trying to scare
you, but you laughed it off because you knew that it was just a test, just an
initiation into this great fraternity of men.
Roy fastened the paper strip around your neck and buttoned on your cape, and on
your high throne of leather and chrome you felt like you were wearing the
vestments of some very powerful religion, about to take part in a timeless
tradition, a ritual.
The best part of the haircut was Roy's witty remarks. "You better buy yourself a
stick to keep all the girls away," he would say with a wink and a nudge. He
would then proceed to ask me about my wife and kids, and being a six-year-old
kid myself, I would laugh at the absurdity of his remarks. Then came the
crowning moment; Roy would lather your neck with hot white shaving cream, and
then with his gleaming blade of steel, he would shave your neck; the Holy
Communion of the barbershop ritual. "You look like a new man," he would say with
great aplomb, "your wife won't even recognize you when you get home!"
Even though Roy the Barber said the same inane witty remarks countless times
over the years, I never got tired of hearing them. They resonated in my mind,
echoing like the catchphrases of my youth. Every month like clockwork I would go
to the barbershop, right up until the time I graduated from high school and
moved away, leaving my small town and Roy's barbershop behind.
Like most men, these holy temples of manhood held an important place in our
lives. They were a gathering place where everyone knew your name, and the
haircut you received paled in significance to the experience of being around
wise old men who told tales of the olden days; barbershop philosophers who
always had a story to tell.
A few years ago I went back to that small town, a sentimental journey to catch a
glimpse of the places of my youth. Perhaps I wanted to see if they had changed,
or if they had perhaps stayed the same in light of the changing world around
them. The red and white pole still remained, silenced under years of grime and
dust. The windows of the old barbershop were all boarded up. Grabbing a
passer-by by the lapel of his jacket I asked what had happened to the
barbershop, what had happened to Roy the Barber? "He's been dead five or six
years now," said the man.
I sat upon the cracked concrete stoop in front of the building, on the silent
steps where hundreds of wizened men had once passed. I wiped from the corner of
my eye a wayward tear, briefly mourning the demise of a great man, a personal
hero. I mourned the demise of the last great bastion of free-thinking man, the
hallowed and fraternal order of the barbershop. And just like those old-timers I
had revered in my wide-eyed youth, I was left to tell stories of olden days,
stories of how things were never as good as they used to be.
Small Town Barber Grover Cleveland Kohl Working in His Shop at Night
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Eisenstaedt,...
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