THE OLD BARBER ON THE BLOCK

My barber and I have come long way. I’ve been visiting him for my regular haircut of what remains of my hair for the past twenty four years. Like any creature of habit I keep coming back to his one man old, rickety shop, which reeks of his home made lotions and mentholated concoctions.

This barber’s name is Joe, not really his real name, but an anglicized form  for the Hispanic name Jose.  He’s been around for a very long time, but his pulse remains steady and sure as he wields his finely sharpened scissors and blades. He boasts of his long list of clientele which includes doctors, lawyers, clergymen, and old rich “hacienderos”, proud of their continued patronage, even if his shop lacks the comfort of air-conditioning.   He simply refuses to leave the old ways of doing things. He declares with pomposity that his prominent patrons are not after modern amenities, which his competition offers, but his superior skill and expertise, so they stick around  despite the hovel of a barbershop he is running.

And the old man is right.

There are only three reasons I couldn’t bear to change him in favor of the modern Men’s Saloon which are sprouting all over.

First, he is a good friend, and I am avidly loyal to my friends. The generational gap of  about twenty years doesn’t affect our friendship.

Second, he is a wise street smart philosopher whose wit and humor are an added bonus for his services.  I often look forward to have a good laugh to relieve the tensions brought to bear upon us by this mundane world.

Third, he is good, too damn good in what he does, that when he cuts, his sharpened hair scissors sing, cutting clean and even. When he shaves, it is completely painless,  all you hear is the terribly sharp blade scraping your chin without the slightest nick.

Joe is one of a kind. I tell him he is the last of the vanishing breed of barbers of his generation, and he sadly realizes that. His prized possessions are his expensive scissors and old fashioned straight razors made from the finest steel by a company in Solingen Germany. He keeps different grades of stones, which only a man of his skills,   can use  to sharpen the tools of his trade. His passion is his craft. And he has some secrets to share, most of which he forbids me to reveal.

Of his many secrets these things he permits me to say. The secret for his steady hands and vitality despite his advancing years can now be told.

This is the clincher. He said he takes a bath only once in a week, but cleans himself using warm rub down. And he advises me not to take a bath after making love to my wife. And for the finale, the  barber talk would usually end by telling me, not to miss Sunday worship for he has been doing this all his life, and he thinks this makes him a strong old goat.

I love this guy!