More than a haircut

When is a haircut more than a haircut? It's not really a joke. But if it was, the punchline would be, "When you go to Randy's barbershop." 

Randy is the only barber in town. There are salons, but do I look like a salon guy? Randy is a John Wayne character (indeed, much of the memorabilia in his shop is John Wayne-related, and the movie he was playing when I last went featured — you guessed it — John Wayne), and he epitomizes the town I live in (tough, no-nonsense, get outta my way, ya fruit loop). His shop is full of funny, kitschy stuff, lots of war stuff, mementos. He has a framed copy of a letter to the editor from the local newspaper praising him for saving the letter writer's life; you see Randy spotted a suspicious growth on the man's neck. It turned out to be cancer. He's a hero, according to the clipping. An unsung hero. But when I walk into Randy's shop, I cower. For me, all his signs say, "Don't fuck up my day, boy." 

Why on earth would I feel such trepidation going to Randy? Well, before Randy, I had never been to a barber shop in my life. Growing up, my mom cut my hair. After that, my girlfriend/wife/ex-wife cut my hair. I grew increasingly irritated by my ex-wife cutting my hair. I didn't even want her touching me. It felt ... gross. I felt gross. I hated it. So, going to Randy was preferable to that. Yes, I had literally never entered a barbershop before Randy's. 

This may seem like a non-issue, something I don't have to write about. The haircut doesn't matter. It's a regular haircut (see below). Its value is more than the $20 I hand to Randy (the haircut is actually $14, but I give a healthy tip). It's the fact that I don't have to ask someone else like my ex to cut my hair. It's the fact that I'm a big boy now. I can get a real haircut.

I've been to Randy's twice now. I took my son once and had to hear Randy say, "If you can't sit still, we're going to be done. Right now," and, "I don't like chasing heads." My son is four. He likes Randy. Randy has a buffer thingie. That's all he knows. My son's sitting still was all used up as we waited, third in line, as Hogan's Heros played on TV (and I had to explain to him what war is for the first time), him squirming in his chair the whole time. He can't sit still. He's like his dad that way. Yes, I even paid $20 for my son's haircut. Thank you, sir. Have a good day. I should have paid him more; we probably fucked up his day.

He shaves my eyebrows for free. He may be a hero for that alone.

Randy is a small-town guy. Like I said, he epitomizes this town. He's a straight shooter. Like John Wayne. No wasted words. No BS. When he asks who has been cutting my hair, I said my wife when I was married. What does it matter? When a new customer comes into my office, I'm not going to ask them where they got that service before. I'm just going to help them. Randy is small-town America, through and through. He's the aging, sagging underbelly of America. He has roots. He doesn't understand people like me who pick up and move a lot. Sit tight. Do your job. Keep your mouth shut. I'm sure Randy is a good guy. He's just of that generation that has heroes like John Wayne. 

So, you see this regular haircut? It's more than a haircut. It's freedom. It's me growing. It's me being independent. Its value is more than the extremely loud Harry Potter movie playing on the far end of the room (like the first time I went). It's more than visiting the unsung, working-class hero on 6th Street. It's more than watching my gray and brown hair fall to the ground as I begin to look more and more civilized. Its value is intangible. Hell, I don't know, maybe Randy really is a hero. 

Thank you, sir. Keep the change.