Thanks for the trim, Jack

Being Frank, by Frank Ameduri

When I was a wee lad I spent a lot of time palling around with my grandfather. Part of our regular routine was a visit every week or two to the barber shop. Though my grandfather, the barber and I all shared the same first name, I was always known as Butch at Frank's Barber Shop.

"Hey, Butch. You takin' good care of the old man today?"

It was an old-fashioned barber shop with three chairs, a small magazine rack and a little black and white television. It seemed there was always either a ball game or the Andy Griffith Show on the TV. One time a moon landing was on the tube.

The first time you sat in Frank's chair he'd ask you what you were looking for -- how long, how high off the ears and collar, length of sideburn and the type of part you preferred. After that you never had to discuss your hair with Frank again. You got the same haircut every time unless you told Frank different. Frank never judged. Frank didn't make mistakes.

Frank's Barber Shop is where I got my first taste of serious discourse. Every topic was fair game, except for religion, and Frank and his regular patrons were all experts on every subject. It was men talking about the world with other men. Contrary to popular belief, there's nothing wrong with that.

When I was living in New York I found a barber named Jack. His business was called Jack's Barber Shop. It wasn't called Hair Peace, or Hair Essentials or Hair Necessities.

Jack did the entire job with a straight razor. He'd pull the hair out gently with a comb and then pass the razor over it. He'd then shave the areas over the ears and collar. He'd give you a shave if you wanted. I've never had a more perfect haircut.

Jack was a quiet worker. Everybody in the shop would be debating one hot topic after another, and Jack would just smile and nod or shake his head as he sculpted your hair. Between haircuts Jack would fire off an open-choked shotgun blast of opinions from the last three topics. Everyone would shut up and listen and then go back to the current topic without missing a beat. Jack would wash his hands and go to work on his next customer.

I miss those days.

When the last barber unplugs the striped pole and boxes up his clippers and combs, an important part of manhood will fall quietly to the floor and be swept into the dustbin. A boy begins growing up the day he sits in the booster chair for his first haircut. It's as important as First Communion, kindergarten, graduation and your first kiss. You learn much about being male in a barber chair. There's nothing wrong with that, either.

I don't even know how to act in the new salons.

I'll never forget the first time a stylist asked me, "Do you want your hair washed?"

My response was, "Come again?"

No. I just want my hair cut. I already washed my hair. It's probably still a little wet in places. Just make it shorter.

Nobody talks politics, sports or social issues in salons, either. Instead of "Field & Stream," "Popular Mechanics" and the local paper, these new places have books with pictures of hairstyles to choose from. There's no picture of a regular old haircut. When I sit in the chair at one of these places, the girl always shakes her head. My head is out of style.

"So what can we do for you today?"

"Cut my hair."

"How do you want it?"

"Shorter."

I know I'm a little defensive. I don't like sitting in a pink chair in front of a round mirror encircled with those little, round light bulbs. I don't like all the colorful bottles of weird hair stuff on the counter. I mostly don't like that the places are way too clean.

It's more like going to the dentist than getting a haircut. There are people sitting around with strips of something in their hair and with black goop all over their heads. I'm out of my element.

A few weeks ago I was getting "styled" when a big, cowboy-looking guy walked into the place. He sat in a pink chair behind me.

"Have you ever thought of coloring your hair?" his stylist asked.

"I don't know. What do you think?"

"I think your hair is perfect for some highlights. We could do it today."

"What does that cost?" he asked.

I squirmed in my chair. He was actually thinking about it.

"Don't get any ideas," I told my stylist. "Just keep cutting."

That's how it goes now. They don't just cut your hair, but they want to do things to it. They want it to be colorful or to stick up in places where it doesn't want to stick up. They want your part to blend in with the rest of your hair.

Before they start cutting they soak your head down, too. They keep your head wet while they cut. At the end, they smear some kind of goop in there so your hair looks like a plastic helmet. They hand you a little mirror so you can admire your hair helmet.

What's the point? My hair is not going to be wet and goopy after I get home. I have no idea how it's going to look or which parts are going to stick up.

"How's that?" the girl asks.

"I honestly have no earthly idea," I say. "It looks like my first G.I. Joe, before they started putting real hair on them." I just want to get out to my car so I can comb my hair the right way. I've got a ball cap out there just in case.

Then, just when you think the nightmare is finally over, they ask the question.

"Do you use any product?"

"How's that?"

"Do you use any gels or product?"

"Look at me!" I say. "I'm half bald. When it's windy, my hair looks like a tuft of dead grass on a very sad hill. I spend all my expendable cash on beer and snack foods. I don't use product. Don't want to use product. Don't even want to discuss product ever again."

This is an alarm call to whatever men might still exist out there. Don't let this happen.

It's not just a haircut, boys, it's an endangered species in the habitat of maleness. The barbershop isn't just the place where you get a trim. It's a social club. It's a place where boys become men and where men can be themselves.

A good barber knows more about you than your doctor, your wife or your pastor. A good barber is someone who trims the hair out of your ears and nose without making a comment or passing judgment. He knows you've got a bad hairline, and he knows how to make it look good. The guys who hang out in the local barber shop are part of your club -- the real Hair Club for Men.

Go to the poles. Not the political polls, but the striped poles outside your local barber shops, and step inside.

Support the Jacks and Franks out there. If your sons haven't decided upon a career, encourage them to consider the proud heritage of the local hairsmith. They'll not only make a decent living, but they'll contribute to the preservation of a cultural pillar. Their shop will be the center of a small universe of men with respectable hair cuts. What could be more rewarding than that?

Frank Ameduri is looking for a good, old-fashioned barber.