Nov. 04, 2005 - 19:45 MST

NEIGHBORHOOD HUB

As a kid, I hated to get my hair cut. That was because my Dad would give the barber instructions on hair length and things like that. I tried to keep my hair off my brow and dreaded the time when he would say, "Look at Douggie with his hair hanging into his eyes." I knew that I would be seeing the barber soon, and that I would come out feeling scalped.

But other than that I enjoyed making the scene at the neighborhood shop near our house.

If I could the optimal time for me to hit there was on a Saturday morning, when the working folks came in to get shorn. I'd try to guess when the barbers would be busy and the chairs along the side pretty full. Hoping to get a seat when the next customer was called. More bang for my buck, it was an ongoing show for me.

I'd grab a magazine, usually a Liberty, sit down -- appearing to read but with my ears wide open.

A school of life it was to me as it was populated with the working folk of our neighborhood, people I knew and respected. Things that were important and of interest to them were objects of discussion between all comers, current sports and boxing events too, played a heavy part.

In the shop I went to the main barber was more or less an informal emcee, guiding the conversations along certain lines.

It was a time of the Great Depression and Dust Bowl. Often the talk was of work, or lack of it and who might be hiring, conditions of the farms of customer's relatives were talked about too.

Sometimes as a man would pay the barber for his haircut and shave (yeah, back in those days even a kid like me was shaved on the back of the neck and around the ears, even) he would make a comment such as, "Hope this helps me get a job." I always hoped it would help him, otherwise he was spending family grocery money.

At our shop there were gaffers in attendance who hadn't come in for a shampoo, haircut or shave but to catch up on current news and thoughts of others. They were usually customers when the need arose, but being retired they attended the gatherings at the barber shop. They took part, quite an active one most of the time.

Of course jokes took up a good part of the conversational time, one joke reminding someone of a joke they knew - - and it went on from there . . . . . . . Often the silence would be deafening before the punch line was delivered. Occasionally one of the men, noticing my shining eyes and open ears would say something like, "Boy, don't let your Mama know that you heard that here." A nod of my hear and a, "nossir," from me pretty well covered it. So I still could be the proverbial fly on the wall, learn the new jokes and stay abreast of the latest stuff. I wasn't about to let on that my education was proceeding apace.

With nostalgia leaking at the seams the memory of the scents and odors at the shop, and the activity and noises attendant, a barber whipping up a lather in a shaving mug, the whop, whop, whop of a razor being stropped, the buzz of the clippers while the barber never lost a word of the converstion, a rare treat was when the barber would put a vibrating machine on each hand, grab two handsfuls of scalp and brain shake the customer, I tried often to see if the persons eyeballs rolled in his head when receiving a scalp massage.

There was some betting taking place there, sotto voce more or less and bootleg booze and money changing hands now and then. Most barber shops were "store fronts" and would have those hogging big front windows, almost from the ground up -- a human fish bowl there.

Those were the days of Prohibition and most every home out our way had some selection of home made wine or home brew which was served to friends when they visited, which included a sip to us kids. There was most always a batch of something in progress in the back or cellar of most places. 'Twas the hard stuff that was bought and sold in barber shops and drugstores.

Meandering in the meadows of pleasant memories, the smell of Brilliantine in my nose (that since has forgotten how to work), remembering the amazing artistry and skill of a barber cutting whiskers clear down to the wrinkled and weather beaten skin of a customer and very seldom was styptic powder needed for a boo boo.

Those days came at the right time of my life and taught me a lot, how to listen, keep my mouth shut when I should, learn the body language in use and in a way how to make a guess if a person was stretching the truth. Those days were all too short back in our barber shop, the NEIGHBORHOOD HUB . . . . . . . . . .

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