The Barbershop

Husband-dear took me to the barbershop. Outside, a pole rotated  like a vertical merry-go-round. Red, white, blue.  Inside, I waited on a long, padded church-pew and witnessed a strictly man ritual.

A row of barber chairs face a wall of mirrors and the barber  motions to an empty chair.  A few grunts, hand gestures and  two nods and the barber knows that husband-dear wants a nice short haircut.  The barber is an energetic man, his own happy curls escape from beneath his Nike cap. He focuses on the head of hair beneath his dexterous fingers. Catching the hair with a fine comb and buzzing the tips, the barber has no need for conversation. And neither does husband-dear. Bending the ear with one hand his electric shears follow the ear's contour. A simple turn on his heels on the black padded rubber mats and Mr. Barber, moving like a dancer, reaches  to a hot shaving foam dispenser . With hot foam and a straight razor, the artisan barber shaves clean the neck and side burns. Another grunt and nod give Mr. Barber the OK to trim husband-dear's red brows. Snip, snip. A discrete glance at the mirror  and Mr. Barber receives the subtle nod from his client.

On a peg above the mirror hangs a leather gun holster like a gunslinger would wear in the days when men took the law into their own hands.  In the corner sits an old fashion cash register with numbers that pop up when you punch in the amount. The ubiquitous TV drowns out other conversations. The magazine rack holds TV Guide, Texas Monthly, Bowhunting and Sports Illustrated. Today's newspaper is stacked untidily in the corner of the bench I sit on. The buzz of the snippers, and the murmur of other conversations are occasionally interrupted with the soft blast of the air compressor  clearing  the clients' necks and shoulders of hair bits.  The barber whistles softly and examines his client's hair. He hands him a hand mirror and a comb.  Husband-dear combs his hair like usual and the barber knows where to clip the last bit.

With a soft brush Mr. Barber swishes and  swooshes husband-dear's red neck and then adjusts his shirt collar.

 "OK?"

Nod.

"OK!"

With respectful deference, Mr. Barber hands husband-dear his cap . A pause ensues, husband-dear keeps the cap in his hand and instead, he lifts his hazel green eyes to meet mine in a look I recognize. I, a guest in this land of nods, grunts, straight razors, and revolvers, smile my approval.