The Barbershop
Another round of focus aerobics, this time with clippers
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—It’s a small, dark room with wooden beams, two chairs, two barbers, a bench and hatrack. There’s a TV playing an old Western, often black and white. The restroom is equally rustic.
Every three weeks for nearly a decade, I’ve visited the same barber, the same barbershop, and nothing about that description has changed.
—Smells are pomade, leather, a lot of dust, occasionally my barber’s vape and whatever wafts in through the door, or the smell of coffee from a shop down the block.
—The reason there’s a movie playing is because the barbershop is Western-themed, nearly every inch, drawn from the barbers’ collection of memorabilia. Cowboy boots, Navajo weavings, a cow skull, a deer’s head. I seem to spot a new picture of John Wayne every time.
Today on the TV is an episode from Have Gun – Will Travel, starring Richard Boone as Paladin. “My favorite Western TV show of all time,” my barber says.
—Both barbers are maybe a decade younger than me. Similar to the visual density of their shop, their bodies are tattooed, every inch. Mine speaks with a slightly formal, precise diction conveying a genteel politeness, making him sound a touch mannered, not like he grew up on a SoCal ranch.
—My previous barber was deaf. The first time I went, I immediately noticed how quiet the shop was: no music, no chatter, despite three barbers and multiple clients. Then a couple people started communicating with sign language; it was a deaf barbershop, deaf barbers for deaf clients. I’d found his shop online, I didn’t know. My turn came up. I apologized for not knowing how to sign. My barber shrugged; he could read lips perfectly well, plus we had our phones.
Great haircut, and I went back several times, I would’ve kept seeing him but the shop was a 30-minute drive.
—To be clear, these “focus aerobics” sessions are meant to last an hour, and my haircut doesn’t need an hour. It’s a routine trim, no shampoo, nothing about my beard. (Occasionally he does the eyebrows.) But I always arrive early, leave late, mainly for the shit-talk, and sometimes I run into friends; by this point, nearly half of my male friends see the same barber, including one friend’s wife.
—Also to be clear: Western TV shows from the 1950s contain racist moments. We’re halfway through the cut when a Mexican character gets called a “chile picker” by one of the bad guys. I recalled one time I got a haircut in North Carolina, and the barber, an older gentleman, a white barber in a small-town white barbershop, casually dropped the n-word. I said I wasn’t cool with that, and we spent the next couple minutes, while the rest of the shop went mute, discussing racial politics before switching sports.
Anyway, in Los Angeles, a moment after his “chile picker” comment, the bad guy steps into a trap and gets yanked off the ground. Take that, racist!
—How loyal are we to our hairstylists and why? Hair is culture, hair is complicated. Hair can be controlled—cut, colored, removed, implanted—but sometimes not. The world’s wealthiest man seemingly felt compelled to get a hair makeover to seem youthful; China’s politburo is both elderly and perfectly black on top. Not to make too light of things, but in Louisiana prisons, good luck keeping your dreadlocks.
At some point maybe we’ll control our hair with peptides, like so many volume dials, but the medicine isn’t yet there.
—I know I wish my dentist was more like my barber. I like my dentist, but visiting him for an appointment is similar to other experiences I’ve had with other dentists: I sit in the chair and things start happening, no explanation, no head’s up, just various mechanical tools I don’t recognize, don’t know the intent of, suddenly get activated and begin making loud sounds that vibrate in my skull.
Whereas my barber always starts with a conversation about what I want. Even though I see him every three weeks and my haircut hasn’t changed in years, he explains beforehand he’s planning to do, demonstrating how it’ll all play out. Then, when I accede, he says, “Don’t worry, I’ve got you brother.” Thirty minutes later, he whips out a three-panel mirror to exhibit what he’s done, showing me the sides and back , quietly whispering an explanation of how the cut went, wondering if I like what I see.
Thankfully, I always do.
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What the what
“Meditations in an Emergency” is a weekly essay from author Rosecrans Baldwin about something beautiful. Paying subscribers receive a Sunday supplement with three-plus things to love, plus a monthly travel-lust ballyhoo.
Rosecrans is a correspondent for GQ, a contributor at Travel + Leisure, and the bestselling author of Everything Now, winner of the California Book Award. Other books include The Last Kid Left and Paris, I Love You but You’re Bringing Me Down. His debut novel, You Lost Me There, was a New York Times Book Review Editors’ Choice.
For magazine articles, bio, contact info: rosecransbaldwin.com.
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