Central Barbershop by Vittore

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For business, I travel quite a bit. I drive all over the state, visiting big cities and small towns, and I'm often away from home for weeks at a time. Maintaining a good appearance is important, so wherever I go, I keep an eye out for barbershops. And over the years, it's become a kind of hobby, to spot the red-and-white barber pole and the little storefront, half-hidden in a strip mall. Sometimes the shop is on Main Street, wedged between a drugstore and a florist, so small you pass it without noticing. And sometimes the shop is all by itself, in a building no bigger than a one-car garage, out on a country road.
I like them all, but I admit a sneaking preference for the one-chair shop manned by an older gentleman. Erect, gray-haired, and dressed in an old-fashioned smock and trousers, he's been in that location for years. He's tough and independent, and he's seen it all. He'll tell you what's happening in that town, and who's worth approaching about business. Or if you're not in the mood for chatter, he'll keep his mouth shut and leave you in peace, to meditate on life's ups and downs, or to listen to the radio.
Central Barbershop looked to be just my kind of place—plain and cozy, a no-frills shop where you could drop in for a few minutes and get a no-frills haircut. As I walked in, the barber was putting the finishing touches on a man he evidently knew well, since they kept up a running conversation. The other man had a traditional haircut, trimmed over the ears and combed back from his forehead. I settled into a chair against the wall and picked up a newspaper lying next to it. There's nothing like a local newspaper to give you the feel of a place.
Mike had to be the name of the barber, because that's what the man in the chair kept saying. Unless he was referring to some other Mike that both of them knew. My attention was divided between the newspaper and them, and it wasn't polite to eavesdrop on a private conversation.
Mike himself, if that was really his name, had short white hair, with a trim white mustache to match. He looked to be in great shape for a man his age, possibly a former military man or an athletic coach. Maybe his hair was thin, because the scalp showed through. Or maybe it was buzzed high on the sides and down to the crown on top, a classic flattop. From my vantage point, it was hard to tell. I couldn't help peeking over the edge of the newspaper. Unfortunately, Mike caught me doing so and winked.
"I'll just be a minute with Mr. Drumheller,” he said. "Make yourself comfortable.”
I slouched down and studied an article on the local school board and next year's budget. Sure enough, within a minute Mr. Drumheller dismounted and paid for his haircut. As he walked out the door, I took his place in the barberchair. The leather seat was still warm. Mike shook out the cape, threw it over my knees and shoulders, and cinched it around my neck.
"What'll it be today?” He ran a comb through my hair, as if to scout out the territory. I should mention that my hair was already short, an ordinary businessman's cut. But as I said, I like to find new barbershops, and this one looked too good to pass up.
"A trim on the back and sides,” I said. "Just clean it up a little.”
"Yes, sir. A trim.”
Mike made small talk as he got to work. I answered his questions and asked a few of my own, like where was a good place to eat lunch, and if there was a chamber of commerce.
As it happened, I was facing away from the wall mirror, so I couldn't tell exactly what Mike was doing. The electric clipper made short strokes around my neck and over my ears, and the comb followed close behind it. No one else was waiting, and neither of us was in a hurry. A haircut can be a relaxing experience, if you're in the right frame of mind.
Mike switched to scissors for the hair higher up, and he seemed to be blending in the tried-and-true fashion. We kept on talking, and before I knew it, he put down his tools and rotated me 180 degrees to face the wall mirror
"Is that short enough?” he asked. "I didn't want to take too much off. People can get upset when a barber does that, and I wouldn't want to lose a new customer, especially a businessman like yourself. But I can make it shorter if you want.”
In fact, the reflection showed a haircut that was considerably shorter than I was used to. Mike probably assumed that my last haircut was three or more weeks before, and not one week, which it actually was. But he also didn't know that he had just pronounced the magic words.
My hobby, you see, went beyond discovering barbershops. I also liked to try new haircuts, to interact with different barbers, and to experiment with verbal exchanges. The rule was that if a barber said what Mike did, I should always agree. No matter how short the haircut already was, he could always take more off.
"Yes,” I said. "If you don't mind, it really needs to be shorter.”
Mike was looking at my reflection at the same time I was, and our eyes met. Was there a flicker of a smile on his face? He picked up the electric clipper, and it snapped to life again.
"You're sure about this?” he said.
"Yes, I'm sure. My hair was getting much too long. Normally I wear it more like yours.”
"A crewcut?”
"That's right.” Now that I was sitting close to him, I could see that Mike did in fact wear a buzzed flattop.
"Tight on the back and sides, and level on top,” he said.
"Yes, sir,” I said.
"Coming right up.”
With a few passes, Mike mowed all the hair from the back and sides of my head, down to bare skin. Since I was still facing the wall mirror, I could watch the process. He then attacked the top, gradually whittling it down to a field of stubble. As the new haircut emerged, Mike became more intent on getting it right. The top had to be even, with no stray hairs sticking out. Finally, he was satisfied. He brushed me off and stepped back.
"There,” he said. "That ought to hold you.”
"It looks terrific,” I said. "Thanks.”
He unfastened the cape, and I was free to go. I paid and headed for the door. As I walked, I raised a hand to the side of my head.
"Feels like sandpaper,” Mike said. "If you prefer, I can shave it down to the skin.”
"Maybe next time,” I said.
"I'll be here. Central Barbershop on Central Avenue. In the center of town.”

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