I’ve been going to the same old fashioned barbershop for ten years. With a firetruck chair for kids in the window and an almost exclusively male clientele, it’s most definitely not a chic salon. They don’t offer manicures, facial exfoliants or a private room in the back for guys with “special” follicular problems. They only take walk-ins and, if you come on a busy day, you’re gonna cool your heels on a hard bench with all the other old timers. 

“Good morning, sir,” a barber said hopefully when I walked in. “Haircut?” Seeing my regular guy was busy buzz cutting a small child’s hair, I said, “I’ll wait for Vinnie.” 

“Yes, sir,” the barber said, barely hiding his chagrin. I could’ve felt guilty, but I wasn’t. Vinnie always cuts my hair, and I believe in monogamy as far as barbers are concerned. I saw my previous guy for almost forty years. On the rare occasion I’ve let some one other than Vinnie cut my hair, I felt like I was cheating on my spouse – though I don’t have any experience in that regard. 

“Hey, Vinnie,” I said, sitting on the bench. “How goes it?” 

“I’ll be done with this young man in a minute,” he said while trying to trim hair off the squirming child’s neck.  

“How old?” I said to the boy’s mother. 

“Three,” she said, rolling her eyes. 

“He’s doing pretty good in the big boy chair,” I said. “My daughter screamed and cried when she was his age.” 

The chime above the front door tinkled and two old guys walked inside. “You waiting for Vinnie?” one said to me. When I replied in the affirmative, he sat next to me and started reading a newspaper. The other fellow, unwilling to wait, hopped into the chair of the less in demand barber. Cheater. 

After brushing off the little boy and ringing the mom up at the register, Vinnie gestured to his chair. “Sir?” he said. 

“How’s it going?” I said, sitting down.

“I’m tired.” 

“This is your busy day.” 

“And how.” 

Vinnie is eighty-five years old and spends his down time at the shop whittling figurines out of wood or making ships in bottles, examples of which were displayed on his counter.  When I asked him if he was ever going to retire, he replied, “And do what?”  He’s one of those guys who’s going to work until he dies – hopefully not when he’s in the middle of giving me a haircut. 

“A two today,” I said as he wrapped some gauze around my neck. “And take more of the top this time.” Other than letting girlfriends pressure me into getting a “new do” during my salad days, I’ve had the same Young Republican hairstyle almost all my life. When I was younger, I got mistaken for cop all the time.

Spying some foreign currency on Vinnie’s counter, I said, “Still collecting money from other countries for your grandson?” 

“Oh yeah,” he said. “He loves that stuff. That’s Filipino money there.” 

As Vinnie started in with the clippers, I fell into a relaxed trance and watched as the morning sun refracted through a jar of Barbicide and cast an emerald spectrum on the floor. There’s something about sitting still while a man wields razor sharp tools near your neck that seems to slow time down. Despite his age, Vinnie’s hands are rock solid and, in another life, he could’ve been a surgeon. Then again, in olden times, that’s what barbers used to do. The red and white stripes of a their pole representing the blood and bandages they used to deal with back they were still considered physicians. Luckily, I had no putrefying boils to lance. 

It’s often been said but, along with bartenders, barbers often fill the role of amateur psychologist or confessor. Vinnie has listened to me grousing about work, marriage, politics, kids, and my upset when I got diagnosed with cancer. Oddly enough, I told him about it before most of my friends. I suspect however, like a priest, Vinnie forgot everything I said the second I left his ersatz confessional. As he grabbed his scissors to do the detail work, I remembered I’d sat in this very chair an hour before the nursing home called to tell me my father was about to die. In retrospect, that half hour of Zen I spent with Vinnie helped me get through that terrible day. Then again, he’s probably so attentive because I’m such a good tipper.

About half an hour later, Vinnie held up a mirror to show the back of my neck. “Good?” he asked.

“Perfect.”

After an application of Consort hairspray and getting brushed off, I walked to the register to settle up. When I started here, a haircut was only fifteen dollars. Now it’s twenty-five. Maybe the tariffs Trump’s levying on everyone caused the price of Barbicide to skyrocket. After Vinnie made change from two twenties, I stuffed it into my wallet and then just smiled at him. After an awkward pause, I slapped my head and went, “Oh your tip!” and then pulled some Costa Rican colon bills and coinage out of my pocket. At the current rate of exchange, it came to $5 USD. I’d made sure to squirrel some away for Vinnie before I came home. 

“Thank you!’ he said, beaming. “My grandson will love these.” I don’t think he cared about the amount, just that I’d remembered his grandson’s numismatilogical passion. 

“The bills are made of plastic,” I said. “Five hundred colones is about a dollar.” 

“Thanks again, kid.” 

Walking out the door, I I looked at the bottled ships on Vinnie’s counter and reminded myself for the umpteenth time I should buy one off him. It’s no accident I’m faithful to an elderly barber. Eventually no one will be left to call me “kid” and I’d like a talisman to remember him by – but not today. Feeling the spring breeze flowing through my freshly shorn and Consort scented hair, I indulged in the fantasy that Vinnie would be my barber forever. 

Sometimes you just want time to stand still.