The Barber

Usually a guy's barber winds up being a cross between his Doctor and his priest.  I remember the very first barber I chose.  I was in high school, and his name was Bill.  He was a wise old guy, probably all of forty-five at the time, and he gave me good advice on every subject from girlfriends to how to correctly make a turn at high speed.  Even after leaving town, for the next twenty years or more,  I'd schedule visits home so they would occur around the time I needed a hair cut.  He was that important to me and I cried the day I learned he had died. 

The Barber Shop is a place a guy can sit and chew the fat with other guys, talk about the game, the teams, the weather and any number of subjects without having to explain to females what is being discussed.  I imagine the Beauty Shop provides the same space for the softer and gentler sex.  It's no wonder I am happy to have found just the right place to get my hair cut.  I needed a hair cut and todays visit proved just how valuable a good barber can be to a man of any age.

There are two chairs and two barbers in the shop I located last month.  When I walked in today, one chair was occupied by a young man who's age I estimated to be in the late teens.  Even though the other chair was vacant and welcoming my arrival, there was another teenager sitting in the row of chairs against the wall where, at a busier time of day, customers would wait and shoot the breeze until it was their turn at bat.   I motioned to the waiting youngster, asking if it was his turn, but he just waived it off and I took the vacant station.

Introductions were made by the barber who was cutting the young mans hair and I was told the kid was getting all spruced up for his first job interview, which was an hour or so later in the day.  I commended him for getting cleaned up for an interview and wished him luck.  The conversation continued and after a while I discovered that his friend, the one seated by the wall, already had a job at the place he would be interviewing and had recommended him to the boss for the position.  Both of them had a lot on the line.  One, his reputation and good judgement.  The other faced the starting gate of his career.  As time went by, the friend pulled a neck tie out of his pocket and struggled to tie a Windsor knot in it for his buddy to wear.

Several attempts were made to tie the knot, but all ended in failure.  The first couple resulted in severe knots of some type but not the kind needed.  Later attempts produced the desired knot, but the lengths of the tie were all wrong.  The front, wide end of the tie, was always only three or four inches long and the narrow, back end of it reached below the waist.  Neither the barber nor I wanted to interfere, and neither of us laughed or smiled at what was a sincere, but horribly uninformed effort.

Instead we offered words of encouragement, telling the young man how hard it had been for us to learn the same knot many years ago and in general told him he was on the right track.  After another half dozen tries he gave up and asked the barber for help.  The knot was explained and tied in a few seconds and both teens grinned.   Hair in order, the first teen retired to the bathroom, tie in hand, to change into a white shirt. He came out looking clean, crisp and ready for work.  We sent good luck wishes with them as they left for the interview.  The first interview is the toughest. 

After they were on their way, we talked about our hope that a teen who was willing to put in the effort to look presentable would in fact get the job.  We talked of our first interviews and about the long road ahead of them.  For the next fifty or so years, a wife, family, good and bad times were all in their future.  The jobs would come, and then be lost.  Homes would be bought and sold.  The barber and I will be long gone by  the end of that time, but I'm sure the barber will be remembered. 

He tied the tie that started the career.