Reflections on a Haircut

The Clip Joint Du Jour

This used to be the $1 Shop

Good Ol' Rays

“How you want it cut?” she asked in my left ear. “Oh, go ahead and cut it so that I’m the only person on earth who can’t see the bare spot on top of my head is edging ever outward.” I had once again stumbled into another in a long line of haircutting establishments I have frequented over the years. I think back on some of the other places I have been, and there are a few that come to mind.

Fred the Barber was a favorite of my dad’s. I only remember that he was downtown somewhere in a two seat shop, and he was so old he could have apprenticed under Methuselah. After a couple of times I refused to go any longer, but I believe my younger brothers continued with Fred long after I had graduated to other places.

As a youngster the place I remembered most was Ray’s (I think) up by what was then the old grocery store on 21st East and 13th South. You walked in and grabbed a seat because there were always four or five heads in front of you. The beauty part was that Ray (if that really was his name) always had comic books to read while you waited. I remember many a fine summer morning wasting away reading bad humor from magazines with half the pages missing (hard to find any continuity).

Years later I went more of the “stylist” route. Bad smells, truly lousy magazines, and over paid artists (pronounced arteests). I even followed a couple to new locations when they had fallen out of favor with management or some of their cutting buddies. The results were always the same…. $30 bucks and a haircut that always looked the same after four days. Sometimes that was good, and sometimes that was bad.

But I digress. This week I was getting my latest hair fix and started making some observations. This place only charges $5 a cut, and they never seem to run out of heads to trim. There is a steady stream of hairy people walking through the door. This is a rectangular building about 25’ by 60’ with 12 chairs in it, six along each wall. There are mirrors along each long wall that give the impression that the place is much larger, but it ain’t. They are too busy to sweep up after every haircut, so you have to watch your step. If you have to wait for your favorite cutter, you have a choice of either an old molded plastic chair (red or orange) from a U of U medical department, a low wooden bench, or a folding chair. I think the magazines on the big round table in the middle of the room were donated by Fred’s estate sale (remember Fred?).

The barbers come from all walks of life, male and female, old and young, Asian and Eastern European. One lady barber sports an oxygen tank on wheels at all times. As diverse as the cutters are, the clientele are even more so. I am usually the only “white shirt” there, as I am stealing 15 minutes from work or lunch. It doesn’t matter, because we all look like refugees when the mismatched plastic covers are put on us around the neck. Some are faux leopard, some black, or a variety of other colors made up to match the rejected Crayola crayons from the 102 box set that nobody every used because they had funny names. Rockwell couldn’t have captured this one.

I found this place because of my old habit of following a barber from a previous location. I was delighted to find out that I could now get my old $12 haircut for only $5. Even with a $5 tip, I was still ahead of the game. Thing is, I am on my third barber in the same place. I got tired of going to Greg, so being hooked on a cheap haircut, I had to figure which day Greg took off, and try somebody else (I’m so shallow). Anywho, this last haircut was as good as any, and she seemed to appreciate the tip. Things is different from the old days. I don’t remember having to have my eyebrows trimmed every month. Don’t want to be a unibrow, do we? And a bushy one at that. Or the hair in my ears tamed. I seem to be growing hair everywhere but where I want it to grow. “And would it kill ya to not comb over that mole on my head?” Sheesh! OK then.