When I was a kid, going to the barbershop was a special occasion. Opening the door and walking past the red and white stiped pole was like entering a secret and forbidden temple; a universe where old men gathered to talk about politics and women and complain about how things were never as good as they used to be.
I marvelled at the man in the white apron as he swiped his razor across the leather belt, honing the blade to deadly sharpness before shaving off the whiskers of one of the neighborhood men in deft strokes of his wrist. His name was Roy, and all over town the name "Roy the Barber" was spoken with respect and a sense of reverence.
When Roy called you over to his chair it was like being summoned to the altar of a high priest. You carefully hoisted yourself up onto the hulking chair, an enormous throne with enough chrome embellishments to make a '57 Cadillac green with envy. You sat upon the black leather seat and gazed out over the sea of old men, the glare from the sun shining off of their bald crowns. They would wink at you, saying something like "you better not squirm, kid, or old Roy just might cut your ear off". You knew they were only joking, or maybe just trying to scare you, but you laughed it off because you knew that it was just a test, just an initiation into this great fraternity of men.
Roy fastened the paper strip around your neck and buttoned on your cape, and on your high throne of leather and chrome you felt like you were wearing the vestments of some very powerful religion, about to take part in a timeless tradition, a ritual.
The best part of the haircut was Roy's witty remarks. "You better buy yourself a stick to keep all the girls away," he would say with a wink and a nudge. He would then proceed to ask me about my wife and kids, and being a six-year-old kid myself, I would laugh at the absurdity of his remarks. Then came the crowning moment; Roy would lather your neck with hot white shaving cream, and then with his gleaming blade of steel, he would shave your neck; the Holy Communion of the barbershop ritual. "You look like a new man," he would say with great aplomb, "your wife won't even recognize you when you get home!"
Even though Roy the Barber said the same inane witty remarks countless times over the years, I never got tired of hearing them. They resonated in my mind, echoing like the catchprases of my youth. Every month like clockwork I would go to the barbershop, right up until the time I graduated from high school and moved away, leaving my small town and Roy's barbershop behind.
Like most men, these holy temples of manhood held an important place in our lives. They were a gathering place where everyone knew your name, and the haircut you recieved paled in significance to the experience of being around wise old men who told tales of the olden days; barbershop philosophers who always had a story to tell.
A few years ago I went back to that small town, a sentimental journey to catch a glimpse of the places of my youth. Perhaps I wanted to see if they had changed, or if they had perhaps stayed the same in light of the changing world around them. The red and white pole still remained, silenced under years of grime and dust. The windows of the old barbershop were all boarded up. Grabbing a passerby by the lapel of his jacket I asked what had happened to the barbershop, what had happened to Roy the Barber? He's been dead five or six years now, said the man.
I sat upon the cracked concrete stoop in front of the building, on the silent steps where hundreds of wisened men had once passed. I wiped away a wayward tear, briefly mourning the demise of a great man, a personal hero. I mourned the demise of the last great bastion of free-thinking man, the hallowed and fraternal order of the barbershop. And just like those old-timers I had revered in my wide-eyed youth, I was left to tell stories of olden days, stories of how things were never as good as they used to be.
