The Haircut

My Dad used to take me to Seth’s Barber Shop on Warren Street in Concord. Being next door to the police station and city jail, an imposing brick and granite edifice full of cops and robbers, always put me a little on edge. Seth’s had big bevel edge mirrors in an ornate oak sideboard the entire length of one wall and a row of barber chairs facing them. The chairs were giant contraptions, made of cast iron with white enamel finish, nickel plated trim and black leather cushions. On the counter under the mirrors were bottles of Old Spice and bay rum and combs resided in tall glass jars filled with turquoise disinfectant fluid.

Tall back wooden chairs with splits in the seats were lined up along two walls. The splits would close as the seat flexed under your weight and pinch your butt. In the summer if you were wearing shorts this would be especially painful. Of course shorts were for boys… one more inducement to get to manhood as soon as possible.

Chrome plated ash trays stood on pedestals between the chairs and they got used a lot. Men would sit waiting and smoke cigarettes and cigars. There was no take a number thing. Customers knew when it was their turn and Seth only had to say, “next.” One winter day, while the giant hot as hell cast iron radiators clanked and hissed, while visible waves of heat wafted upwards, I sat waiting and got fooling with a ragged hole in one of the knees of my blue jeans. Having holes in your jeans was cool and the bigger the better. So I got pulling out tufts of thread and put them in the nearby ash tray, and with hot ashes in there they started smoldering. Sinuous wisps of smoke curled up and there wasn’t much I could do. The smoke had a nasty stink to it and then little flames leapt up. Nonchalantly, so no one would know it was my doing, I moved across the room and then a bigger flame broke out and then all hell broke loose and Seth ran for it and tossed the entire thing out the door into a snow bank. I don’t recall whether or not I got busted. Funny how that detail escapes me.

Seth was a nice guy. He wore a light blue smock, his silver hair was cropped into a short brush cut, he had a gravely voice and he smoked like a blast furnace. The cigarette dangling from his mouth was as much a facial feature as his nose; likely no one would recognize him without it. With scissors and comb and humming electric clippers he’d transform his customers from shaggy to trim. Watching Seth give a customer a shave with his long straight edge razor, all the while talking up a storm and the cigarette jiggling up and down always scared the hell out of me. He worked quickly and efficiently, swick, swick, swick went the razor, so close to the jugular, but never did he nick a customer’s face or neck.

This was a man’s place. Men would sit and smoke and read the paper and talk. Boys would sit and fidget and start fires and run around. Sometimes they’d run out the door in an effort to escape the impending doom of their turn or expend the cooped up energy within stomachs full of sugar coated breakfast cereals. We didn’t need Ritalin then. We simply ran around like Tasmanian Devils and no one worried about us and everything worked out ok. On the rare occasion my Mother brought me to Seth’s, everyone in the place would freak out. The whole vibe changed, it was awkward, no one knew what to do. It’s not as though it was an unruly, unmannered crowd. It was just, “Uh oh, it’s a woman.”

Seth would boost me up into the chair and ratchet a big lever back and forth and kachunk-kachunk-kachunk, up I’d bounce. He’d then wrap my neck with a band of white tissue paper and then place an apron over me and fasten it around my neck with a clip, always a little too tight.

Seth had one hairstyle in his repertoire. Short. Bangs over the forehead were a big thing so he’d hold my hair down flat on my brow and snip it off straight across. This after refereeing a battle between my Dad and me where he would snip, and seeing how my Dad was directly connected to getting paid, Seth let him win. In other words my bangs were cut short. And because my hair on the right side of my forehead wants to bob up, when he let go… boing! the right third of my bangs would rocket skyward. Every time. And boy didn’t that look goofy. I never had bangs go straight across.

A few years ago I had it with getting my hair cut so bought an electric clipper with a bunch of comb attachments and every once in a while I’d mow my hair into submission. With a fresh cut, friend’s would look at me with a combination of concern and amusement, first wondering if something catastrophic had happened to my health and then settling into the realization I just looked funny. Sallie’s response nailed it: “you got peeled!” she’d say. Then I met my sweetheart R and she said, “G! You’re lucky you have hair. You ought to let it grow.” So I put the clippers away for awhile. At some point the shaggy dog look got to be too much for both of us and in my resistance to go to a barber, R cut my hair. Bless her heart she gave it her best shot, but, well, the result was a little… lopsided. What the heck, I’m not too particular in this department and it’d grow back and it did. No big deal.

As it goes, my hair got longer and longer and looking like a hard used mop. There’s a wedding coming up - gasp - I actually have to look presentable for a change. This kind of thing is always a shock to my system. “You mean I can’t wear jeans???” Which starts a cascading effect. If dress pants are required, then shoes follow. “Shoes? You mean my Lowa lows won’t cut it? How about my clogs?” I wore my clogs to the last wedding and except for dancing they did fine. Ok, well enough. I’m not going to buy shoes for a wedding. Use once and put in the back of the closet. But I digress. I needed a haircut.

This morning about quarter to ten my phone rang. It was R. “I’m at B beautiful. Steven has an opening at 10:30 - he’s great, fantastic - can you make it?”

I gave my calendar a quick look, “sure,” I said. “Thanks Sweetheart.” So I finished paying bills, put the checks in the mail and headed out.

B beautiful is nothing like Seth’s. It is a salon where haircutting is one small part of the picture. One of the great things about Santa Fe are the little gems tucked away in unlikely places. B beautiful is in a light industrial business complex off Early Street. The buildings are metal sided and the parking lot is well potholed. A climbing gym, car repair shop and yoga studio are neighbors.

The waiting area is equipped with comfy chairs and a cool waterfall. Steven’s assistant Leo greets me and leads me back to the cutting stations, sits me down and wraps a towel around my neck. Not too tight, “Steven would not be happy if we strangle a client,” she says. We go to a sink, I sit in a different chair and lean back and Leo shampoos my hair and puts conditioner in it. Then back to the cutting station and she combs my hair. I’m laughing about the fact this is the first time my hair’s been combed in years. Literally. Steven, dressed in all black, a sharp sport coat over a t-shirt and jeans, comes in and I tell him about my lack of grooming and he laughs and we talk about what I want and he actually listens. Then he starts to cut. He snips here and he snips there and he walks around me and gets his hands in my hair and draws it out and looks and snips and little bits of hair go flying in all directions and before I know it… it looks good! Like I’m a respectable human being or something. And we find motorcycling is a common interest so of course we talk bikes and tell tales of our two wheeled adventures. Leo comes by and asks if there’s anything I need. “Theatre tickets?” I wonder. No, more like a cup of coffee or tea, but I’m all set.

Steven is one of four partners in B beautiful and they’ve been in business five years. I congratulate him - this is quite an accomplishment. “Especially in this depression!” he says. He trims my beard and puts some stuff in my hair that smells vaguely reminiscent of peach cobbler and in short order I’m on my way. When I get out into the sunshine and fresh air I feel good. The man may make the haircut but getting trimmed up and looking good, or in my case, better, puts a spring in my step I didn’t have walking in.

Later in the afternoon R comes home. “Oh my God!” she exclaims. She fools with the hair around my ears. “Nice!” Then she messes up the back. “It has bounce!”

“It does?” I ask.

“Yeah. Do you like it?”

“Yes, I do.” I say. I’m not sure about the bounce thing, but I like the cut. Thank you Steven and Leo, I’ll be back. Five stars to B beautiful!

Gordon Bunker