I’ve been stuck in hair care limbo for almost 30 years.
I remember being pretty young when my father would take me to the local Barber in my small Pennsylvania town. Mike Daddario was a little Italian guy who owned a small shop on the corner with two big showcase windows, right next to the local post office. The man was the coolest guy in town. “Down to the bone,” he’d proclaim as every kid hopped onto his black chair. To this day, I’m pretty sure, “down to the bone” meant Mike was gonna cut your hair however the hell he chose to. Nobody argued. How could they? He was the Barber and you were his guest. Everyone left happy.
Every Saturday morning, Mike would have a room full of men. Big men, small men, young men, old men, and even bald men! I’m serious! These guys weren’t coming for just haircuts every week. These guys were showing up for free coffee and some great conversation. This was their escape. If only for a couple of hours every week, this is where all these guys would come to read the paper, talk sports, bust balls, and tell some jokes. I was far too young to understand it at the time, but this was a sanctuary. This was where every man was supposed to be on a Saturday morning.
As Mike grew older, he trimmed his business hours the same way he trimmed his hair, and eventually Mike closed his doors for good. My dad was forced to find a new barber and since my parents hated each other, the idea of continuing to expose me to that great life experience never crossed their minds. My mom started taking me to her hair dresser and that’s when things slowly began to spiral into a black hole of confusion and despair.
Again, I was too young to appreciate the great riches that the Barber Shop provided, but suddenly I went from a bunch of men sitting around a shop, talking everything from baseball to movies, to a chair in a kitchen, listening to my mom and her friend gossip about the neighbor’s new boyfriend. What the heck had happened?! Scheduled appointments, hair care products, flower wallpaper, and whispering? Where was my father’s (and so many others’) sanctuary? Where were MY people and what had I gotten myself into?!
That experience changed me. I became a different person. My entire childhood was damaged. As time went on, I could feel myself morphing into a young man, but something was always missing. As I entered into adulthood, I bounced around from hair dresser to hair dresser. One of my best friend’s wife opened up a salon and I eventually found myself handcuffed to another hair dresser. This time, it wasn’t my mom dragging me to her gossiping girlfriend, it was my allegiance to my best buddy that forced me into his wife’s soul sucking salon. “A stylist” is what they were called; and by this point I almost totally forgot what a Barber was.
I spent years in my friend’s wife’s salon just listening to gossip about this person and that person. I learned more about shoes, clothes, and expensive jewelry in those years than I could have ever imagined learning in a lifetime. All this going on, and again, I didn’t even realize what I was missing out on. These women cut good hair, but it was never more than that. But it should have been. It should have been an experience. It should have been a sanctuary.
About one year ago, a guy I knew from high school opened up a small corner Barber Shop a block down the street from my favorite bar. I’d drive by the shop almost daily just wondering what was going on inside those big showcase windows. I’d see people coming in and out with smiles on their faces and fades in their hair that looked like Jesus himself cut them. But I couldn’t do anything about it. I couldn’t betray my friend, his wife, and her shop. Could I?
Soon after “A Gentleman’s Barber Shop” opened, my friend’s wife raised her prices. It wasn’t enough to make a difference for me, but for the first time, I saw a way out for myself. I missed a scheduled appointment in March and never rescheduled again.
I remember the first day like it was yesterday. I parked in front of the shop and hesitated a bit as I walked to the door. It’s been 20 years since I’ve entered the hallowed halls of a real Barber Shop. I wondered if I would even be welcomed back. Slowly pulling the door open, I saw a head peek around the corner as the owner asked, “lookin for a cut?” Seeing my hesitation and fear, he told me to grab a seat and said he’d be right with me.
I looked around and saw two TVs mounted on the wall, sports posters hanging throughout, a Playstation on the shelf, and a fresh pot of coffee next to the couch. There was an adult man and his young son in the chair before me. Suddenly, things didn’t seem so foreign. Suddenly, things felt okay. It was a strange, but comfortable feeling that I hadn’t felt in a very long time.
As I hopped in the chair for my turn, the Barber took a look and asked me what I wanted. I looked back at him and smiled. “Down to the bone,” I proclaimed. I knew I found my sanctuary.
I remember being pretty young when my father would take me to the local Barber in my small Pennsylvania town. Mike Daddario was a little Italian guy who owned a small shop on the corner with two big showcase windows, right next to the local post office. The man was the coolest guy in town. “Down to the bone,” he’d proclaim as every kid hopped onto his black chair. To this day, I’m pretty sure, “down to the bone” meant Mike was gonna cut your hair however the hell he chose to. Nobody argued. How could they? He was the Barber and you were his guest. Everyone left happy.
Every Saturday morning, Mike would have a room full of men. Big men, small men, young men, old men, and even bald men! I’m serious! These guys weren’t coming for just haircuts every week. These guys were showing up for free coffee and some great conversation. This was their escape. If only for a couple of hours every week, this is where all these guys would come to read the paper, talk sports, bust balls, and tell some jokes. I was far too young to understand it at the time, but this was a sanctuary. This was where every man was supposed to be on a Saturday morning.
As Mike grew older, he trimmed his business hours the same way he trimmed his hair, and eventually Mike closed his doors for good. My dad was forced to find a new barber and since my parents hated each other, the idea of continuing to expose me to that great life experience never crossed their minds. My mom started taking me to her hair dresser and that’s when things slowly began to spiral into a black hole of confusion and despair.
Again, I was too young to appreciate the great riches that the Barber Shop provided, but suddenly I went from a bunch of men sitting around a shop, talking everything from baseball to movies, to a chair in a kitchen, listening to my mom and her friend gossip about the neighbor’s new boyfriend. What the heck had happened?! Scheduled appointments, hair care products, flower wallpaper, and whispering? Where was my father’s (and so many others’) sanctuary? Where were MY people and what had I gotten myself into?!
That experience changed me. I became a different person. My entire childhood was damaged. As time went on, I could feel myself morphing into a young man, but something was always missing. As I entered into adulthood, I bounced around from hair dresser to hair dresser. One of my best friend’s wife opened up a salon and I eventually found myself handcuffed to another hair dresser. This time, it wasn’t my mom dragging me to her gossiping girlfriend, it was my allegiance to my best buddy that forced me into his wife’s soul sucking salon. “A stylist” is what they were called; and by this point I almost totally forgot what a Barber was.
I spent years in my friend’s wife’s salon just listening to gossip about this person and that person. I learned more about shoes, clothes, and expensive jewelry in those years than I could have ever imagined learning in a lifetime. All this going on, and again, I didn’t even realize what I was missing out on. These women cut good hair, but it was never more than that. But it should have been. It should have been an experience. It should have been a sanctuary.
About one year ago, a guy I knew from high school opened up a small corner Barber Shop a block down the street from my favorite bar. I’d drive by the shop almost daily just wondering what was going on inside those big showcase windows. I’d see people coming in and out with smiles on their faces and fades in their hair that looked like Jesus himself cut them. But I couldn’t do anything about it. I couldn’t betray my friend, his wife, and her shop. Could I?
Soon after “A Gentleman’s Barber Shop” opened, my friend’s wife raised her prices. It wasn’t enough to make a difference for me, but for the first time, I saw a way out for myself. I missed a scheduled appointment in March and never rescheduled again.
I remember the first day like it was yesterday. I parked in front of the shop and hesitated a bit as I walked to the door. It’s been 20 years since I’ve entered the hallowed halls of a real Barber Shop. I wondered if I would even be welcomed back. Slowly pulling the door open, I saw a head peek around the corner as the owner asked, “lookin for a cut?” Seeing my hesitation and fear, he told me to grab a seat and said he’d be right with me.
I looked around and saw two TVs mounted on the wall, sports posters hanging throughout, a Playstation on the shelf, and a fresh pot of coffee next to the couch. There was an adult man and his young son in the chair before me. Suddenly, things didn’t seem so foreign. Suddenly, things felt okay. It was a strange, but comfortable feeling that I hadn’t felt in a very long time.
As I hopped in the chair for my turn, the Barber took a look and asked me what I wanted. I looked back at him and smiled. “Down to the bone,” I proclaimed. I knew I found my sanctuary.
