Chuck’s Barber Shop
On the heels of a long overdue Covid cut performed this very morning...
I really like the experience of going for a hair cut. It was not always this way. When I was a young lad, my father used to take me to Chuck the Barber in a nearby small town in rural Manitoba.
We’ve all been in or seen Chuck’s shop on TV or in movies with it’s red, white and blue cylindrical beacon spinning in the window. Inside an old style red leather and chrome swivel chair Chuck with a foot pedal to adjust the height was positioned a few feet back from full wall of mirrors. The countertop lined with towels, brushes, combs, clippers and a hair dryer or two. Tall silver topped jars were filled with some mysterious blue liquid, in which was submerged more combs, seventeen different varieties of scissors and two or three ominous looking straight razors of different lengths. Several chairs were backed up against the wall as a makeshift waiting area. An end table sat between the chairs overflowing with old magazines. One of the only things I liked about going to Chuck’s was the opportunity to flip through a Sports Illustrated or National Geographic, wherein the latter, I might catch a glimpse of a partially nude African tribeswoman. Hey, I was a naturally curious 12 year old boy.
The slick tiled floor was intermittently covered with the butchered locks of Chuck’s last victim. I say victim because I was terrified of Chuck. My mind’s eye sees him as a cross between Leonard Cohen and Steve Buscemi. He had slicked back jet black hair, a plain white button down short sleeve shirt and putrid, yellow smoke-stained fingers. The rumour I heard and wholeheartedly believed as an impressionable kid was Chuck was a recovering alcoholic. I always feared a slip of his shaky hand as he waved sharp objects around my ears and neck. Never mind my dad insisting I get a “real boy’s haircut,” which meant saying goodbye to the majority of my curly mane. I recall sobbing when we returned home to show mom the result of Chuck’s despicable deed. There was more than one tear-filled, curse laden battle fought over whether or not I would go to school with my stylistic abomination and risk the ridicule of my peers; particularly those of the female variety.
As mentioned, I’ve come to enjoy visiting the barber, but it took a while following the horror of my prepubescent near death experiences.
