Ah, to be King

Imagine yourself as king. Imagine yourself away from the ordinary environment, people, habits and responsibilities -- if only for a short time. Now, imagine yourself magically whisked away for an hour of your weekend morning to the throws of a fierce battle. Can you picture an intense light, an exotic place with seedy characters and razor-sharp instruments?

What if you were captured? Envisioning yourself slapped in a cold chair, you gasp as you see fabric tied tightly around your neck. A giant bib below your chin covers your body -- a detached method for easier cleanup from the violent slashes of the men who hold the blades . . .
I don’t mean to frighten anyone, but I escaped such a dramatic circumstance last Saturday. It was the first time in six years I had been to a real barber shop. They call the place King’s, and for those few moments when the barber slaps the warm shaving foam on your face and neck, you certainly feel like one.

I used to go to a great barber shop (University Barber Shop?) in Waco, TX with my buddies when I attended Baylor University. My friend, Rishi Sriram (a Waconian), still sees Gene, the best barber there, on a regular basis. But since I moved up North, I’ve managed to find only pseudo-barbers, faux-barbers, independent contractors, and chain-clippers. That is, until now. Don't be mistaken, a barber shop must have the swirling barber stripes, but just because a shop has the stripes does not mean it is a barber shop. Those other places have their own quirks and stories (and sometimes good haircuts), but I forgot how charming a true barber shop can be.

For those that have never had the authentic barber shop experience, allow me to paint a very different (but no less gruesome) scene. The shop is filled with customers, almost exclusively male, sitting down the center of the room. The men are either reading the paper; a sports, business, or electronics magazine; or engaging in conversations across the room. Some shops have you pull a number, deli-style; some let the customers duke it out, announcing space for the subsequent scalp due for a cut with the ambiguous call, Next!

The barbers are all male as well, and there are about eight of them on busy days. Now, to be a bona fide barber-shop barber, you must have to be at least fifty years old -- it's stricter than the presidency. To get your license, you must also learn a one-to-one ratio of one-liner jokes to number of years you’ve been alive. Barbers are the factory workers, and the barber shop the docks, of modern suburbia. It’s the only place one can go to see what a civilian man was like at the time of the Great War. These men have spittoons in their dens; they have beer bellies; they have close friends of forty years because they’ve never moved out of town.

The whole place is filled with morning light and loud banter. They talk about fishing trips, good meals, and recent surgery. But most of the time, they talk about . . . nothing really. They can rattle off clever retorts like a seasoned studio guitarist can lay down an idiomatic lick. They like to poke fun and make wisecracks. They love to laugh.

The haircuts are fine -- nothing spectacular -- but you’re going to leave looking like a man. They’ll have none of that styling baloney. You can use a comb and hair gel when you’re done. Of course, your hair must be long enough to comb when you’re done. Actually, this last haircut I got was slightly painful; they can be a little forceful with their tools. All barbers use their hands for is holding thin, metal scissors or two-pound electric sheers, but their touch is much closer to that of a construction worker than a beauty-school artist.

But then comes the straight-edge razor! I don’t know why, but it is so cool to be shaved by a grisly man with a long scalpel. As I mentioned, the warm foam behind the ears is like a salon pampering. As great as this part is, you don’t go to a barber shop for the haircut. Getting your mop trimmed is a necessary byproduct of the otherworldly transport you undergo the moment you pull into the parking space next to the ’65 Chevy. They’re not men to learn from (unless you need a quick jibe), but the barber shop is a place to gain some perspective on life, a place to appreciate the richness hidden in the daily grind, and maybe a place to create a new character for your next short story.

So . . . king? Maybe not at the barber shop. Come to think of it, maybe not at home, either. There's only room for one . . .