Clumps of hair on the floor, strong smell of tonic, and the wall of pin-ups opposite the chairs. These are the memories of Saturday morning with my grandfather at the barbershop. It was always a special weekend treat. My granddad and I would load up in the Buick and idle in the driveway while my grand mother took forever to primp and preen herself. He would tap his wedding ring impatiently on the big steering wheel and mutter something along the lines of "what the hell does she need to look good for, she's going to the damn beauty parlor". After dropping her off (sometimes barely even bringing the car to a complete stop), we would speed off down the street to the 'Mall'. It was just a block-long strip of shops, and we would always stop first into the Liquor store. There my granddad would pick up a bottle of his favorite sherry, a box of chocolate mints, and a big handful of licorice vines. The later of witch he would hand to me and warn me that Grandma wasn't to here about this detour.
The row of old men, reading the paper, the buzzing of the razors, the big yellow lab that never moved, but would twitch an eyebrow whenever the door chime jingled, all great icons to that American tradition of the haircut. There were no dyers, no curlers, no stench of perm solution. Only all things manly were allowed past that red and blue spiral pole at the door. Here men could talk about politics, sports, or the rack on that dame from the Perry Mason Show. A Sailor and a Marine, would boast about who had the better liberty in Singapore. Two retired firemen would sit in the corner, for what seemed like motionless hours, opposed of a chess board. I would sneak peeks at the centerfolds in the magazines left on the table, or shoot some marbles on the polished linoleum with some longshoreman with huge callused hands.
I come now to Al's Santee Barbershop. It brings me back to those bygone days. There's no old dog, and the pinups have been deemed Non-PC, but you can still feel the lack of estrogen influence, the minute you walk in the door. It's a modern cut, done in an old fashioned manor. Grizzly men come in, swap war stories, and walk out refreshed and somewhat rejuvenated. There's never a lack of good conversation, and if silence falls, Al himself will chime in with some worldly advice about women or hard work. There's the familiar buzz from the clipper, the cold of the straight razor on the back of your neck, and the sting of the tonic splashed on your face. There is a feeling of belonging here. I can't wait for the day that I bring my grandson here, but not first without a stop off at the liquor store. Do they still sell licorice vines? read more