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Hangar 5 Barbershop by CJ (recovered)


Hangar Five Barbershop


By CJ



It had been about three weeks since my last haircut. I have a shortish ivy league. When it gets to the place where hair touches the front of my ears, it is time for me to get it cut. I was driving home from a meeting, and realized that I was driving past the Naval Air Station. And I saw a sign: Hangar Five Barbershop. There was an airplane hangar, and a door with a barber pole revolving beside it. By the time I saw the sign, I had driven past, so I did a “uie” and went back. Pulled my Mazda into the parking space in front of the door.

Inside the shop I could see three chairs, three barbers. A military place, for sure. So I took a deep breath and walked in. Nobody said a word, but there was a lot of clipper action. Just as I walked in man in the chair to the left got up, and was paying. As I was sitting down to wait my turn, the barber, a man who looked to be 25 or so, said “You’re up.” He took his cape and swatted out the stray hairs on his chair, and I sat down.

It was all business as usual. He didn’t say anything, but put a paper towel around the back of my neck, tucking it into the neckline, a strip around my neck, pulled it snug, and then pulled the cutting cape up tight. I could hear the Velcro catch as he smoothed it out. I waited for him to ask how I wanted it cut, or “what would we be doing today,” but he asked nothing. Took a large black comb from the barbercide container, shook it off, and combed my hair all around.

The next thing I knew, he put his left hand on the front and top of my head. “Head down, sir.” He said, and with firm pressure pushed my chin down. And then I heard a set of clippers fire up, probably Oster’s, I thought, given the sound. But he hadn’t asked me how I wanted it cut. Before I could speak, though, I felt the clippers begin at the back of my nape, and move slowly and steadily up to the crown, and over the top. Well, no need in the die was cast.

The cut didn’t take all that long. He did the right side first, hair falling on the cape and on the floor. From what I could see (which wasn’t much, because he kept my head pushed down tight), it was about a quarter inch after he cut it. Then he reached back for the comb he started with. He lifted the hair on top of my head, and with clippers-over, mowed the top down until it was just long enough to lay over. The crown of my head was clipped tight like a crew cut or a flat top. And, as you might expect, there was a rise in my thighs.

Finally, he took another set of clippers, maybe Wahl’s, with a very sharp blade on them, and cleaned up around my neck. No razor shave, I noticed none of the barbers were doing razor shaves. So a scrape here, a scrape there, and he was done. “There, sir, that ought to hold you for a couple of weeks.” I looked up, and he had sculpted a perfect Ivy League. He dusted my neck with a brush and Clubman powder. I reached into my pocket and handed him a $10. He said thanks, and as I was walking out, in came another man, with a grown out flat. Wish I could stay around to see what happened to him.



The End



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