Shorty's Barbershop -- an Excerpt from "On Harrisonville Avenue"

I interrupt my telling of the story behind the writing of Locusts and Wild Honey to present an excerpt from On Harrisonville Avenue which is a memoir published in 2008.  I wrote it in the brash style of a thirteen year old boy, circa 1955.  It was based on my recollection of things -- surely dimmed by the passage of time and flawed by not having taken notes at the time.  This is one scene from the chapter titled "Shorty's Barbershop," an institution in New Boston at the time where news of the day, politics, sports and
good-natured kidding were all fare game for those waiting for a haircut.  Here is a description of Shorty at his best while shaving the Funeral Director's generous face:

Shorty was a neat man, with a white shirt on, a burgundy bow tie (hand tied) and brown slacks with brown, kind of beat-up comfortable shoes.  His cuffs were rolled up and he had garters around the sleeves at his biceps to hold the sleeves in place.  And, yes, he was short, about 5 foot 5, my height.

 

On the floor around his white porcelain chair was a rubber mat to cushion Shorty’s steps as he shuffled around his customer.   Although Shorty had the latest electric razors and shears, most of the time he had a comb and a pair of scissors in his hands.  Snip, Snip, Snip. Comb. Snip, Snip, Snip. Comb.

Shorty’s hair was thinning on top.  He had the kind of hair that was combed back, on the top and the sides.  It was shiny looking hair, held in place by liberal doses of creamy Brylcreem.  Everybody had shiny, wet looking hair using Wildroot or Brilliantine or Vitalis, most of it in the traditional styles.  The younger men and boys, though, were experimenting with different styles, mostly to look like the movie stars Marlon Brando or James Dean, and then there were the musicians like Gene Krupa the Drummer or the new guy from Memphis, Elvis Presley.   They had interesting hair also that young men imitated.

During the past year, I had converted from the Flat Top (I hated the Flat Top “Butch Wax") to longer hair combed up on top and swept back into duck-tails on the sides with a straight line in my hair in the middle of the back of my head.  I didn't like the shiny look, so I had to “train” my hair to lay that way.  “Training” required constant combing, so I always had a comb with me.

Mr. Burns the Funeral Director was in Shorty’s chair.  I had hoped that his was going to be a simple haircut, but no – Shorty laid the chair down so Mr. Burns was stretched out flat, parallel to the floor; Mr. Burns was going to get a shave, as well.

Out came the hot towel over Mr. Burns face while Shorty sharpened his barber’s straight razor on the leather strop attached to the chair.  When the razor was just right, Shorty went to the shelf above the wash basin and got his shaving mug that said “Clubman” on the side and his fine shaving brush.  There was clinking as the brush swirled around in the mug producing a foamy lather.  The hot towel was removed and the lather was applied.  Shorty had done this so many times that the moves were smooth and polished, with a little flourish here and there.

Scraa-aape, Scrape, Scrape.  The sharp razor held at the right angle removed even the heaviest beard, below the surface.  The lather that piled up on the razor was offloaded on Shorty’s bare arm at the wrist and above. Scraa-aape, Scrape, Scrape.  Then the neck.  It made me uncomfortable to watch Shorty shave the neck.  Mr. Burns had several folds in his neck just to make it more challenging, but Shorty had been down this road many times before as he smoothed the rolls out and got every whisker without nicking one mole or missing one crease.

The chair came upright and Mr. Burns’ face was toweled off and dried, then the back of his neck was lathered and shaved, toweled and dried.  Shorty shook some Clubman Talcum on his hands and rubbed it across Mr. Burns’ neck, washed and dried his hands and then went to a green bottle “Pinaud’s Lilac Vegetal”, sprinkling some of the liquid in his hands, Shorty patted Mr. Burns generous cheeks and neck with the aftershave.  Then combed his hair one more time and removed the protective apron.  Voila !  The smell of talcum powder and Lilac wafted faintly though the shop as Mr. Burns retrieved his suit jacket and his Fedora from the pegs. 

“Put it on my bill, please, Shorty.  See you, fellas,” said the quaffed and shaved Funeral Director, as he bid farewell.

“Thanks Mr. Burns.  Come back again.” The bell rang – Ding -- as he exited the shop.

“He has a big funeral today,” said Shorty.  “Mrs. Hamilton. Come on up Bill.  You’re next,” Shorty said as he brushed off the chair and snapped a new fresh apron open for Bill.  Crack.

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Pictures from the book On Harrisonville Avenue:  Ron's House, Ron with his rooster and friend Jerry and Shorty's Barbershop across the street.