So, it’s been nearly a week now and none of you has commented on my haircut. Inconsiderate beasts, the lot of you.
It’s a flattop, you know, flat enough to shoot pool on if you’re into that sort of thing. Makes me look like one of those guys who does more before 9 a.m. than the rest of you do all day.
Important note: I don’t get up until noon, so please don’t call.
I got this spiffy cut at Moe Landry’s place on Blake Street in Lewiston. Sometimes getting a haircut isn’t so much about fashion as it is about the experience itself. It’s manly stuff, this flattop business. Moe’s place isn’t one of those girl-smelling salons with photos of hair models on the wall and gossip flying around like stray hairs. It’s a by-God barbershop, with straight razors and other implements that could be used to kill a man. When you roll into a joint like that, you don’t even talk about hair, except for maybe one or two words at the beginning.
“What’ll it be?”
“Flattop.”
“Gotcha.”
And then, with the all-business buzz of clippers humming in your eat, it’s on to the good stuff. A manly haircut takes no more than five minutes (if your barber comes at you with a curling iron or similar implement, you have no option but to kick him in the groin and run), but that’s plenty enough time to cover a wide range of topics.
While Moe transformed me into a flat-headed Adonis, we covered everything from the elections to baseball to the weather to the unpleasantness of airline travel to family to the neighborhood to crime trends and then back to baseball.
You know why we can cover so much ground? Because we’re professionals, that’s why. Moe has been cutting hair for 43 years and I’ve had hair nearly all of my life. When you’re in the barber chair, you don’t dawdle over conversations like some (all) women I know. A proper barbershop conversation sounds like this.
“Some election, huh?”
“Sure was.”
Boom! Done. You may grunt once or twice in response, but anything more than that might be considered effusive.
And, look at that: The left side of my head is already done. Not that I check myself out in the mirror, mind you. My eyes focus on the gleaming razors and nothing more. If you want to gaze dreamily into a mirror, use your rearview while trucking down the street like the rest of the girls.
On to baseball. No need to get into things like ERA or WAR here, my friend. This ain’t a sports pub.
“Lots of Bates kids been in. Ballplayers.”
“What kind of cuts?”
“Short.”
“Not like those hippie Red Sox then.”
“Nope.”
Grunt. Boom! Done. With just a few words, you have learned something and shared your feelings about Major League trends. Anything more would border on prattle and we don’t want that.
The clippers are crawling across the very top of my head now, so that means it’s time to talk about travel.
“Going to Florida for the winter?”
“Nope.”
“Don’t blame you. Travel is miserable.”
“You got that right.”
No barbershop chatter would be complete without a few remarks on the weather, so we got down to it.
“Winter’s coming.”
“Sure is.”
“Gonna be a long one.”
“Ayup.”
Family matters? Easy.
“Still married?”
“Yup.”
“Good for you.”
Even the very end of the haircut is an exercise in reticence. Other people are waiting to get their hair cut, too. We don’t need to stand there babbling on about the finer points of a hairstyle or the matter of cost.
“That look good to you?” Moe asks, wheeling me to face the mirror.
“It does.”
“All right then.”
“Ten bucks?”
“Ten bucks.”
Boom! Done.
I’ll get my hair cut at Mr. Landry’s shop every time because he gives a fellow a perfect cut (or in my case something beyond perfect — I mean LOOK at it!) and just the right amount of conversation. Every snip of the scissors is precise and so is the wordplay.
Grunt.
Boom! Done.
I should point out that things are entirely different at a tool store. A day after I got this ultra-perfect haircut, I happened to stop in at Harbor Freight (those testosterone pills are really working out), the gigantic new tool store in Auburn. When someone engages you in conversation there, my brother, you’re in for the long haul.
Old-timer in Dickies: “Can you believe we got us a Harbor Freight right here in Auburn?”
Me: “Sure is nice.”
“Nice? A dream, is what it is. I can do all my Christmas shopping here! My wife can do all HER Christmas shopping here! This is unbelievable! Did you see the price on them Sawzalls? And the miter saws? I mean, pinch me, I must be dreaming, right? Walk with me, boy. I’ll show you around the place and tell you all about tools. By the way, that’s a nice flattop you got there.”
He’s right about that. It IS a hell of a flattop.
Thanks for noticing.
Mark LaFlamme is a Sun Journal staff writer. Email pithy phrases with either subject or verb to mlaflamme@sunjournal.com. Boom. Done!
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