003 - Our Barber (1 - Brentwood)

The Last Apricot Tree Under the Mountain

Dad’s Saturday list was a mixed bag. I preferred tasks that got us on the road. And so I looked forward to when he would take my younger brothers and me to ‘our’ professional barber. This was important: it was not the other professional barber. I didn’t realize until later that there was another barber in town. Why would I? In a small town, you don’t cheat on your barber. He would know. When you saw him in the grocery store or at the swim meet, it would be unbearably awkward. There was, in this case, no reason to let the eye wander.

‘Professional’ meant very short hair cuts. I don’t know where the hippies went to get their hair cut. Did they even need to go? I have had ‘high and tight’ as good, but never better. He perfected the bald fade before it was called a bald fade. From smooth to fuzzy to a buzz, flat top or little wave, running your hand over it was its own special nirvana. Even the high school girls just had to run their hands over that haircut.

The shop had a short facsimile of a barber pole that was lit when open. It was located in our ‘big’ shopping mall at the edge of town. That means five minutes from downtown. The walkway seemed long and dark. I have been back as an adult. It wasn’t. The floors were linoleum and hairless. The magazines were for adults, except Highlight. I loved that he could use his foot to pump up the height of the big leather chair in slight jerks and bumps, then slowly let me down with another lever I could never see.

I am not sure of the source, but the smell was distinct, if not unpleasant. Ozone from the electric razor? The alcohol rub to brace the skin at the end? The myriad concoctions to make the hair wave, grease back or stand up and bark? When he would smack his straight edge rhythmically on the leather sharpening strap, I dreamed of being old enough to get a shave.

As I got into high school, my parents finally let me start growing my hair out a little (about six years too late). Our church grooming standards were from the fictional but no less influential 1950s IBM Young Professional’s manual. Growing your hair out told the world that all you wanted for dinner was the marijuana.

So I would say that I did not cheat on our barber, I just cheated on the hair style. It must have been a weird transition for the profession to 1970s styles. My friends started learning to cut hair the way I liked, so I started going to them. Fifty or so years later, I still feel guilty for leaving our barber. Now the town is big enough and there are enough barbers that sneaking around is mostly fear free.

But I never went to that other guy! He was a great barber, they say, so no disrespect. If you have to switch professionals in a little town, best go to the next town, or slink around with amateurs.

Editorial and Advance Reader Contributors: Mark Wallace, Alisha Price, Heather Bergevin of Barrow Editing, Mette Ivie, Bonnie Wach, Francoise Boden, Mark Berg, Mike Hammer and Kathy Toelkes. Special thanks to Bill Davis for a kick in the pants that only a friend from your old stomping grounds can give you. Mt. Diablo and Apricot Tree painting by the talented and local artist, Greg Hart.