From Mark's Curmudgeon Corner (a new blog sub-segment)
Somewhere around 1999, between jobs, I thought about
applying for a grant to write a book about barbershops. My general idea was
that with the advent of Supercuts and the like, another American institution
was going to go the way of the Passenger pigeon. Or very soon, the vaquita in
Mexico. Hopefully not our democracy (ok, it’s a republic), though Agent Orange
told a group of teenagers recently that the Constitution, Article 2 says he
“can do anything I want."
Barbershops held a high place in my growing up years in
Oklahoma City. One barbershop, that is - Murray’s. Located at the corner of SW
44th & Walker, kitty-corner from my elementary school, Lafayette,
and next door to the tiny store where I sold the pop bottles I collected
walking to and from baseball practice in the summer. I converted my loot into
MAD magazines and bottles of Grapette soda. I had to hide MAD from my
confiscatorial mom who thought MAD was evil. The bottle deposit was 2 cents
(and went up to 2 for 5 cents when I was about 9!), and I am sure that looking
for those bottles (thanks, you litterers!) is what inculcated me with the
thrift store bug.
Murray was larger than life to me as a small kid. He had I
think 2 chairs. They had razor strops on the side, which he used when someone
got a shave. I do not recall anyone other than Murray cutting hair. There was
the requisite stand with comic books and hunting and fishing magazines (no
girly stuff as far as I know – it was Oklahoma!) Above it was a small black
& white TV, which I remember as always having baseball games on – clearly
not that accurate since that was only several months per year. And also, in the
summer, a window unit air conditioner, straining away against the Oklahoma
heat.
 |
| Mark as Jimmy Johnson |
Each haircut brought sartorial apprehension. I always thought
I would look bad after the haircut, versus today when I am happy just to no longer
look like Jimmy Johnson, with a shrubbery atop me pate.
And then there was the
itchy hair down your back. I know I regularly complained about going to the
barber – not because of Murray, an adult who treated even little kids with
respect, but because it was just a little short of going to the dentist. Yet I
remember it fondly.
 |
| After the rescue cut from Murray |
So, the weekend before our 1st grade pictures at
Lafayette, I decided I could cut my own hair. I took a pair of scissors to my
crewcut and got ‘er done. My mom came home, shrieked, dug in the closet for a
baseball cap, and planted it firmly on my head. Good news – I was allowed to
NOT go to church that Sunday! Woo hoo! This never happened unless you had been
run through with a red hot poker or had some dread disease (a cold did not
count).
Barbershops were generally closed on Mondays, but my mom
called Murray and he came in and basically shaved my head, the only way to
rectify my handiwork. Later that day, the school photo was taken, memorializing
in perpetuity my self-shearing.
 |
| Mark (and his hair!) 2nd from left with brothers Bruce & Dan flanking |
Fast way forward. When I was in my senior year at Oklahoma,
I decided to let my hair grow. I was working at a hippie health food bakery,
and no one even noticed, except my dad. He was extremely not happy about
it and stopped helping me pay for school my last year.
Eventually the need to
get a real job and use my degree meant getting a haircut again. By now my hair
was down to the middle of my back, a luxuriant mane. The nice lady (I went to a
salon, not a barbershop this time) kindly braided my ponytail and cut it off in
one fell swoop. It lived in that state for nearly a decade, sitting on a
bookshelf, until I lost it in the war (my personal euphemism for losing things
in a divorce, I hope that is not offensive to people who know what real war is.)
I should add that when I showed up in class post-haircut, my students (I was
teaching College Algebra at OU) booed me. Sigh.
Somewhere about 1997 I went into a real barbershop in San
Leandro, California, on my way to work one day. It was a classic tiny 1960s
strip mall thing, next to a donut shop. I had never been in this one, though I
tried most of the ones I could find in San Leandro. I chatted with the man who
cut my hair, told him I was working in Hawaii selling coffee, and he started
telling me stories of his time in the military in Hawaii during WW2. In
particular, he had more than one tale about getting into beefs with local mokes
because soldiers had money to spend and local girls liked that… and the mokes
did not. He also told me he was in the shop that day because he was helping his
buddy, the owner, who had family in town and was taking the day off.
When the haircut was done, the barber handed me a green
plastic comb, imprinted with “Happy Birthday from Bud.” I thanked, him, though
it was not my birthday. I went back a few weeks later and the owner did not
know who this "Bud" was I was talking about. Cheeken skin! (that’s Hawaiian pidgin for goose flesh). I
came up with a few explanations but am sticking with my favorite – an encounter
with a spirit barber. I use the same “Bud” comb every day now, for good luck.
When we moved to Oakland also 1997, we had a neighbor, John
Cerrone, a true curmudgeon, and funny as hell. I am guessing he is 80 by now.
He often walked his dog by the house, a pug, and proved the maxim that people often
look like their dogs. He grew up in Boston, he still has a very heavy Boston accent,
which he uses to full effect talking about his old friends, people with names
like Johnnie and Rocko, who you don’t mess with. I used to see if I could
overwhelm him with homemade Bolognese, or homemade cannolis for Christmas. It
was a ton of fun. What has this to do with barbers?
 |
| John "Carmen" Cerrone, inspiration for Shampoo?? |
John was a hair stylist in San Francisco starting in the
late 1960s, his trade name was Carmen, his customers were famous. He is the
person who convinced Joan Baez to cut her hair short (and then did it). He “hosted the likes of
Sassoon and Paul Mitchell,” who took his ideas. He was also devastatingly
handsome back in the day. He had me scan some of his pictures from then…I
showed them to some of the other neighbors, who were speechless (reference
walking the pug, above). He sent me a video of him giving Robert Duval a baldy
way back when. Life is better than fiction if you pay attention.
So – how does all this have anything to do with our travel
blog? (Cue Holy Grail: “He’s going to tell! He’s going to tell!)
Living in
Mexico on and off now for 2 years, I have had many haircuts in local shops
where my not-so-great-yet Spanish makes me wonder what I will get. I have
landed on a local place, Joe’s Barber Shop in Ajijic. I first saw the name on a
float they were sponsoring in a desfile for Guadalupe through town. As I
told son James when he and Mattie were visiting, you have not had a real
haircut until you have a Mexican haircut.
Why? To start with, no one is in a hurry. They use scissors
as well as clippers. They use a straight razor to trim up all the sides and
such. I usually get the corte y barba, which means I get a beard trim and
shave (with hot towels). Yes, here in dangerous Mexico, I expose my throat to a young Mexican man with a straight razor. I should also say, look at the young Mexican men and the
care many of them take with their coifs. And after an hour, it costs 130 pesos (80
for pelo only) plus tip. Deal of the week.
(Note: current exchange rate
is 19 pesos per USD)
 |
| From Joe's facebook page...EN SERIO!! |
Once again – Viva México (and
barbers!)
2019 agosto
