I hate massages, but I love haircuts. What a day at the spa does for my wife, and most of her friends, a simple haircut does for me. And for me, it all began at J.C.'s Barber Shop in my hometown. For most of my early life J.C. (who is my uncle) cut my hair. As of this writing he is still cutting hair in the same little one room building, across the street from Johnson's Foodtown, for over 50 years now, and he's got it down to a science. About the only thing that has changed in all of those years is the cost of a haircut, which gradually increased a dollar or two every 5 to 10 years. I can remember driving by several times on Saturday while you were in town running errands and checking each time to see if the parking lot had thinned out indicating you wouldn't have a long wait. I can remember having to climb up in his little leather booster chair that was made to look just like the regular barber chair, and him still having to use the manual hand pump lever to boost me a little higher. I can just as vividly remember being virtually paralyzed with fear as he warned my mamma, in as syrupy of a southern drawl as any John Grisham character, to make sure I sat still because, "I wouldn't want to slip and cut this boys ear off." I didn't want that either, especially since he claimed to have a jar where he kept all the little boys ears he cut off because of their wiggling. I can still remember the sound of the vacuum system connected to his clippers (still the only one I've ever seen) which prevented the little clipped hairs from getting all over you during the haircut. (You don't think this is a big deal until you go to a barber in Memphis, your first week ever living anywhere other than your hometown, and having him use a Shop Vac to suction all the hair off your face, neck and head when he's done....TRUE STORY!). There were always deer heads hanging on the wall, sometimes other animals too, along with polaroids of deer, turkey or fish that had been caught or killed by his customers. His wall was a grown man's equivalent to a mamma's refrigerator where pieces of pride were put on display for all to see. I can still remember the mystery of the blue or green liquid he soaked the combs in (I still don't know if that was Kool Aid or antifreeze).I can still smell the air, a mixture of talcum powder, aftershave, musk and Brille cream along with sweat and oil from the farmers and factory workers who stopped in while they were "in town" to get a quick trim. I loved getting a glass bottle Sun Drop from the old fashioned drink machine while I waited (you know the kind with the small glass door on the right where you would pull the bottle out horizontally?), and then put it in the wood crate return box when I was done. I learned a lot about life listening to the stories, lies, jokes and politics the old men discussed while I waited for my turn in the chair. I can still hear the sticatto, "Ah-Ah-Ah" laugh (reminiscent of the Count from Sesame Street) as loud as a siren that J.C. would bellow after telling you a joke. He seems to instinctively be able to read each patron to know exactly how much to talk and how much to listen. Some guys want a conversation, others want to listen to stories, some want to talk (barbers are a lot like therapists), others want to sit in silence (this may be the only place they get peace and quiet). This is the barbers equivalent to a doctors bedside manor. Some have got it, others don't. Some have it but can't give a good haircut, so when you find one like J.C. who can do both, you've found a pearl you better treasure. I can remember turning sixteen and going in there for the first time by myself. I got and paid for my own haircut, with no mamma to tell him how it needed to be done. I don't know if I've ever felt more like a man than in that moment. It was as if I had been initiated into a club, crossed over a rite of passage and everyone in there was silently consenting, "You're one of us now." And I remember beaming with joy the first time I went back in and brought my son to get a haircut and helped him climb up into that little leather booster chair and with every pump of that hand lever my pride swelled bigger and bigger. And I grinned as he warned me to make sure my son sat still because, "I wouldn't want to slip and cut this boys ear off", and then saw my boy's eyes widen in terror. I still smile at the thought of four generations of Britton men sitting in that chair as my uncle J.C. did what he did, dozens of times a day, for 50 years. I loved the simplicity of it all. No appointments needed, just come in, wait your turn, take a seat, "A little off the sides, the back, the top" was all the instruction he needed, and then let the man do his work. He was like a sculptor only his tools were shears and scissors. Then with a light dusting of his soft hair brush to clean off any hair the vacuum missed, and you were on your way, looking, and feeling like a million bucks. I loved the consistency of a trip to J.C.'s. You always knew what you were going to get. Years would go by and my hair in photographs would always stay the same because he always got it right. And you don't realize how important that is until you have to go somewhere else and they don't get it right. I always loved, and still do, going to J.C.'s for a haircut (although I confess I snuck down to Haygood's City Barber Shop occasionally to get shaved with the hot towel, warm shaving cream and straight razor, followed by the powder....you have not lived as a man until you have experienced this....the closest thing to pampering a man is allowed to enjoy and still retain his man card, short of being petted by his mamma). To this day the buzzing of clippers soothes and calms me and has on occasion put me to sleep. I have no idea how long he plans to continue, but I'm glad that his son Keith has been cutting two chairs down from him for I know nearly 30 years, so even when uncle J.C. holsters his scissors and clippers cousin Keith will continue the tradition. Don't go to J.C.'s looking to get manscaped or manicures. Go there to celebrate one of the simple pleasures of being a man....a good haircut.
Thursday, March 14, 2013
Gettin' My Hair Did
I hate massages, but I love haircuts. What a day at the spa does for my wife, and most of her friends, a simple haircut does for me. And for me, it all began at J.C.'s Barber Shop in my hometown. For most of my early life J.C. (who is my uncle) cut my hair. As of this writing he is still cutting hair in the same little one room building, across the street from Johnson's Foodtown, for over 50 years now, and he's got it down to a science. About the only thing that has changed in all of those years is the cost of a haircut, which gradually increased a dollar or two every 5 to 10 years. I can remember driving by several times on Saturday while you were in town running errands and checking each time to see if the parking lot had thinned out indicating you wouldn't have a long wait. I can remember having to climb up in his little leather booster chair that was made to look just like the regular barber chair, and him still having to use the manual hand pump lever to boost me a little higher. I can just as vividly remember being virtually paralyzed with fear as he warned my mamma, in as syrupy of a southern drawl as any John Grisham character, to make sure I sat still because, "I wouldn't want to slip and cut this boys ear off." I didn't want that either, especially since he claimed to have a jar where he kept all the little boys ears he cut off because of their wiggling. I can still remember the sound of the vacuum system connected to his clippers (still the only one I've ever seen) which prevented the little clipped hairs from getting all over you during the haircut. (You don't think this is a big deal until you go to a barber in Memphis, your first week ever living anywhere other than your hometown, and having him use a Shop Vac to suction all the hair off your face, neck and head when he's done....TRUE STORY!). There were always deer heads hanging on the wall, sometimes other animals too, along with polaroids of deer, turkey or fish that had been caught or killed by his customers. His wall was a grown man's equivalent to a mamma's refrigerator where pieces of pride were put on display for all to see. I can still remember the mystery of the blue or green liquid he soaked the combs in (I still don't know if that was Kool Aid or antifreeze).I can still smell the air, a mixture of talcum powder, aftershave, musk and Brille cream along with sweat and oil from the farmers and factory workers who stopped in while they were "in town" to get a quick trim. I loved getting a glass bottle Sun Drop from the old fashioned drink machine while I waited (you know the kind with the small glass door on the right where you would pull the bottle out horizontally?), and then put it in the wood crate return box when I was done. I learned a lot about life listening to the stories, lies, jokes and politics the old men discussed while I waited for my turn in the chair. I can still hear the sticatto, "Ah-Ah-Ah" laugh (reminiscent of the Count from Sesame Street) as loud as a siren that J.C. would bellow after telling you a joke. He seems to instinctively be able to read each patron to know exactly how much to talk and how much to listen. Some guys want a conversation, others want to listen to stories, some want to talk (barbers are a lot like therapists), others want to sit in silence (this may be the only place they get peace and quiet). This is the barbers equivalent to a doctors bedside manor. Some have got it, others don't. Some have it but can't give a good haircut, so when you find one like J.C. who can do both, you've found a pearl you better treasure. I can remember turning sixteen and going in there for the first time by myself. I got and paid for my own haircut, with no mamma to tell him how it needed to be done. I don't know if I've ever felt more like a man than in that moment. It was as if I had been initiated into a club, crossed over a rite of passage and everyone in there was silently consenting, "You're one of us now." And I remember beaming with joy the first time I went back in and brought my son to get a haircut and helped him climb up into that little leather booster chair and with every pump of that hand lever my pride swelled bigger and bigger. And I grinned as he warned me to make sure my son sat still because, "I wouldn't want to slip and cut this boys ear off", and then saw my boy's eyes widen in terror. I still smile at the thought of four generations of Britton men sitting in that chair as my uncle J.C. did what he did, dozens of times a day, for 50 years. I loved the simplicity of it all. No appointments needed, just come in, wait your turn, take a seat, "A little off the sides, the back, the top" was all the instruction he needed, and then let the man do his work. He was like a sculptor only his tools were shears and scissors. Then with a light dusting of his soft hair brush to clean off any hair the vacuum missed, and you were on your way, looking, and feeling like a million bucks. I loved the consistency of a trip to J.C.'s. You always knew what you were going to get. Years would go by and my hair in photographs would always stay the same because he always got it right. And you don't realize how important that is until you have to go somewhere else and they don't get it right. I always loved, and still do, going to J.C.'s for a haircut (although I confess I snuck down to Haygood's City Barber Shop occasionally to get shaved with the hot towel, warm shaving cream and straight razor, followed by the powder....you have not lived as a man until you have experienced this....the closest thing to pampering a man is allowed to enjoy and still retain his man card, short of being petted by his mamma). To this day the buzzing of clippers soothes and calms me and has on occasion put me to sleep. I have no idea how long he plans to continue, but I'm glad that his son Keith has been cutting two chairs down from him for I know nearly 30 years, so even when uncle J.C. holsters his scissors and clippers cousin Keith will continue the tradition. Don't go to J.C.'s looking to get manscaped or manicures. Go there to celebrate one of the simple pleasures of being a man....a good haircut.
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