Life in the pandemic: hair cutting blues and memories in Daydreaming on the Porch

This is one of those entries I can’t believe I’m writing as I read it over. Like fear of grocery stores in this New Age plague time, who in the world would have ever thought it would be dangerous going to the barbershop? Except for the remote chance the barber might slip with his razor while doing a hot shave of the neck and around the ears. But barbers were skilled and shaves were, and are, part of the iconic barbershop rituals so many of us of generations past remember. It was always done after a haircut when I was a teenager, and they still do it now. You won’t see that at Supercuts and Hair Cuttery, as far as I know. But as I got older, I skipped that luxury (it sure felt good) because by then I had made all the small talk I could manage and was ready to look in the mirror, either wince or sigh in relief, and be on my way. What really sealed the deal, though, was watching a barber one time rinse out and reuse old towels on a customer’s neck from pervious customers. I made sure I never got that barber.

So, this entry is born of a sense of loss, but also a vague sense of pride at being able to do something myself that I never in my 69 years had done before. It’s too bad it’s this way now because barbershop rituals have been engraved in my memories since the days when old Mr. Adams or Mr. Johnny cut my hair in their shop in a little strip shopping center I went I when I was a kid.

So here goes.

Every morning when I get up, I stumble toward the bathroom and get it over with first thing. I look in the mirror. Eeeek! My hair is looking raggedy even though I’ve been trimming it every week for a month now. I bought a pair of thinning shears and an electric clipper with a No. 3 attachment. That’s what the barber used to ask. Number 3 clipper for the side? Yes. That sounds right.

Because of the pandemic and business closures, I haven’t been to the barber in 3 ½ months. I have a complete head of very thick hair that can get very long. It’s gotten pretty white over the past five years. I remember nostalgically when it used to be called “salt and pepper” which made it look “distinguished,” people used to say, trying to make me feel better about getting old. I never could imagine why men dyed their hair. I don’t know about you, but it always seems to look fake reddish instead of brown or whatever and was always visible at the part in the hair. I think most men give upon that, but I could be wrong. As Cervantes said, “The knowledge of yourself we preserve you from vanity.”

But I look a little harder at my hair and I start to relax a bit. Hmmm, it’s not THAT bad and besides I’m retired and don’t have to look neat as when I was working. The thinning shears can be brutal at shortening your hair before you even know it. Unlike cutting with regular scissors, thinning shears make it look like nothing has happened until you turn your head to the side and see what appears to be a bare spot. Back to the cutting board, so to speak. Whack, whack. I then try the electric clippers, but I really can’t get the hang of them and I don’t want to look like a lawnmower has run amok all over my head. The hardest part to cut is the back of my head. It’s all guesswork and very awkward. Back there I have a knot that protrudes, but you can’t see it because my hair is so thick. I’m always lying back on a pillow or cushion to read and after a couple of hours of this, when I get up the hair back there sticks out at a 90 degree angle. So I either have to wet it down and use Vitalis, or just try to smooth it down and forget about it. Who’s going to see it anyway? I’m holed up in the house most of the time.

I have to admit, overall I give myself a passable haircut/trim on a regular basis. This is good because I don’t know when or if I’ll go back to the barbershop. It is unfortunate though because for the first time in my life — and I’ve been going to the same place for at least a dozen years, a real, old-fashioned barbershop established in 1968 — there are not one, but two barbers (actually cosmetologists; the number of male “barbers” has greatly diminished over time) who cut my hair exactly the way I like it. This is unheard of. Usually in the past whenever I’ve been there, I’m never sure what I’m going to look like or who the new hair cutter will be.. But the pandemic has cut off those professional hair cutters from their customers. As much as I miss them, for they are very pleasant and good at what they do, I’m really not sure I will go back. I don’t care what anyone says, until there’s a vaccine, that kind of close contact is going to be risky, and who knows how many Covid-infected people enter on a daily basis. Most of them don’t even know they have it. It’s one thing to have to the dentist for a toothache and quite another for elective procedures such as haircuts.

I think most people will agree that when you get past a certain age, say 40 or so, and especially if you’re past 65, you become invisible walking down the street to anyone under 40. Years ago it would have been 30, but now 40 is the new 30. Try it sometime. Try looking at a young person and notice how you don’t even exist, unless you look weird or unkempt. People will notice then and want to get by you as quickly as possible.

So it looks like I’ll be getting very proficient with those thinning shears. I’ll be saving some money, though sadly not helping the economy, but I’ll feel more self-reliant. Who cares what I look like. No one, apparently.

Goodbye to the striped barbershop pole and welcome to memories of the good old days when haircuts were $1.25 and you could go by yourself to the barber and flip though a copy of Field and Stream or Argosy and think you’re all grown up, at least for a little while. Fond memories, indeed.

A classic barbershop interior. (Photo by Mic Hunter)

Last updated June 06, 2020