We entered a barber shop,my father and I.It was on one of the road trips.Usually we had our hair cut every few weeks at the barber school at the New Brunswick Institute Of Technology,because they provided inexpensive haircuts and were within walking distance of the house.Children's hair got cut for free,and adults paid a quarter.
There must have been a reason for this visit,aside from the cutting of hair.But I've never been clear on what that reason was,other than it was likely just a visit,for it's own sake.My father knew the barber,called him by his name,like he'd known him forever,and perhaps he had.
There was a building being torn down just across the street,a busy road with shops all along it and the hulking automobiles of that day prowling up and down.My father sat in the chair and I watched bricks and boards fall to the ground through the barber's front window.It was a two or three story building,one of the larger ones on the street,and it was missing a big chunk of it's top left hand corner,as a piece of machinery kept poking away at it and little clouds of dust rose and drifted into the street.
The barber snipped hair with scissors and complained of the dust,and the noise.Snip,snip,"Damn I wish they'd finish.Just bring that building down." Snip,snip.And another board would fall into the street.The barber carried on a lively,good natured banter with my father as he clipped and buzzed and combed,talking about people I didn't know.But it was a small town and both my father and the barber seemed to know everyone in it.
The barber finished with my father,dusting away hair onto the tile floor,removing the ribbon of white paper from around the neck,and holding up a mirror so that my father could view the back and sides,and nod approvingly.
And then it was my turn.I shuffled through the pile of hair clippings on the floor all around the chair,and crawled up into place.It was a long way up into the chair and the barber had to pump a hydraulic lever to raise the chair so that he could reach me.The chair was ornate,of shining brass and pewter,and soft gleaming leather,the sort of chair that proclaimed the shop to be the exclusive habitat of men and boys.The barber was dressed as barbers then did,in gray pants and a crisp,clean white smock,not unlike that of a doctor.And he began to snip,trying to make small talk with me,asking me silly questions,afraid maybe that I would protest his efforts.
"How old are you?
"Four"
"Are You married?"
"No." Why would he ask such a question? I could see myself in his mirror,I could see all his instruments laid out on a counter beneath it-comb,clippers,scissors,more than one pair of each.If I stretched and struggled just a bit I could still catch sight of the building across the street out of the corner of my eye.I tried to make the movement with my eyes,so I could hold my head still,so as not to be poked by the tip of the barbers scissors,or cause him to make a crooked cut with his clippers.
My father walked around the floor,paced,really,though the place was small.He didn't sit in the chairs where people waited.He had no interest in the magazines laid out on a small coffee table.He was watching the building too."Sad to see that old building Go" he said as he paced.In those days he was slim and fit,carrying little body fat,his arms veined and sinewy.A bit short of six feet.About one hundred and fifty pounds.Neat,with his short,well trimmed haircut,his hair still dark,without a trace of gray.He was a picture of youth and health,looking as though he could do anything,looking as though he belonged,right there where he was standing,like that world belonged to him.
For fifteen minutes the barber clipped,until my hair was cut just like my fathers.I watched as little bits of it dropped to the floor,and I wondered how often the man gathered up the clippings,and what he did with them.Sent them away in the garbage I supposed,and it seemed strange that a part of what was once me was lying on the floor.At last he finished,and dusted away the final bits of hair with his brush,and lowered me to the ground.Those chairs seemed really high when I was so short.
We said our good-byes.
"Come again,Walter."said the barber."It's always good to see you."
"I will" said my father.But I don't recall ever being there again.
Down the hill we drove,the old town hall with it's clock tower on our left.Ticking away the hours.It gave the town a southern and Gothic look.Ticking away the hours.Maybe the tallest building in town,but not really on the highest part of the hill.It made the town look as though it was a place that mattered.Ticking away the minutes.It was an odd time,strange minutes to be passing,because the town was changing too,not what it had once been,looking for a different sort of existence.
I wonder,did those minutes seem to pass quickly,or slowly during the times of disaster,when the towns men were trapped beneath the ground.It must have resembled something other than the faithful,mathematical,measured movement of time.Too slow!"It's been too long."Or,"so quickly,the hours are rushing away,too many".It made no difference to the old town clock,none at all.
We went to the Sears catalog store and picked up a package for someone,though I'm not sure who.And we went across to the candy store,on the right hand side of the street as you go downhill.The owner greeted my father warmly,talking to him as he seemed to everyone,like they'd not quite left childhood behind,but that's the kind of place the candy store was.There were few people there that day.No children hanging about because it was early afternoon.It would be busy when the schools let out,busy with small kids each with a few pennies.
The shop owner scooped out three kinds of candy into three paper bags."Come again,Walter,It's good to see you,you need to come more often",the little man said,in thickly accented English.
We got into the car,with three bags of candy and headed out into the flats below the hill,where downtown was forgotten,where the air was bad,the houses dingy and the town's life blood once was taken from the ground beneath our feet.In past days.
And that is my first,my earliest memory of Springhill.
There must have been a reason for this visit,aside from the cutting of hair.But I've never been clear on what that reason was,other than it was likely just a visit,for it's own sake.My father knew the barber,called him by his name,like he'd known him forever,and perhaps he had.
There was a building being torn down just across the street,a busy road with shops all along it and the hulking automobiles of that day prowling up and down.My father sat in the chair and I watched bricks and boards fall to the ground through the barber's front window.It was a two or three story building,one of the larger ones on the street,and it was missing a big chunk of it's top left hand corner,as a piece of machinery kept poking away at it and little clouds of dust rose and drifted into the street.
The barber snipped hair with scissors and complained of the dust,and the noise.Snip,snip,"Damn I wish they'd finish.Just bring that building down." Snip,snip.And another board would fall into the street.The barber carried on a lively,good natured banter with my father as he clipped and buzzed and combed,talking about people I didn't know.But it was a small town and both my father and the barber seemed to know everyone in it.
The barber finished with my father,dusting away hair onto the tile floor,removing the ribbon of white paper from around the neck,and holding up a mirror so that my father could view the back and sides,and nod approvingly.
And then it was my turn.I shuffled through the pile of hair clippings on the floor all around the chair,and crawled up into place.It was a long way up into the chair and the barber had to pump a hydraulic lever to raise the chair so that he could reach me.The chair was ornate,of shining brass and pewter,and soft gleaming leather,the sort of chair that proclaimed the shop to be the exclusive habitat of men and boys.The barber was dressed as barbers then did,in gray pants and a crisp,clean white smock,not unlike that of a doctor.And he began to snip,trying to make small talk with me,asking me silly questions,afraid maybe that I would protest his efforts.
"How old are you?
"Four"
"Are You married?"
"No." Why would he ask such a question? I could see myself in his mirror,I could see all his instruments laid out on a counter beneath it-comb,clippers,scissors,more than one pair of each.If I stretched and struggled just a bit I could still catch sight of the building across the street out of the corner of my eye.I tried to make the movement with my eyes,so I could hold my head still,so as not to be poked by the tip of the barbers scissors,or cause him to make a crooked cut with his clippers.
My father walked around the floor,paced,really,though the place was small.He didn't sit in the chairs where people waited.He had no interest in the magazines laid out on a small coffee table.He was watching the building too."Sad to see that old building Go" he said as he paced.In those days he was slim and fit,carrying little body fat,his arms veined and sinewy.A bit short of six feet.About one hundred and fifty pounds.Neat,with his short,well trimmed haircut,his hair still dark,without a trace of gray.He was a picture of youth and health,looking as though he could do anything,looking as though he belonged,right there where he was standing,like that world belonged to him.
For fifteen minutes the barber clipped,until my hair was cut just like my fathers.I watched as little bits of it dropped to the floor,and I wondered how often the man gathered up the clippings,and what he did with them.Sent them away in the garbage I supposed,and it seemed strange that a part of what was once me was lying on the floor.At last he finished,and dusted away the final bits of hair with his brush,and lowered me to the ground.Those chairs seemed really high when I was so short.
We said our good-byes.
"Come again,Walter."said the barber."It's always good to see you."
"I will" said my father.But I don't recall ever being there again.
Down the hill we drove,the old town hall with it's clock tower on our left.Ticking away the hours.It gave the town a southern and Gothic look.Ticking away the hours.Maybe the tallest building in town,but not really on the highest part of the hill.It made the town look as though it was a place that mattered.Ticking away the minutes.It was an odd time,strange minutes to be passing,because the town was changing too,not what it had once been,looking for a different sort of existence.
I wonder,did those minutes seem to pass quickly,or slowly during the times of disaster,when the towns men were trapped beneath the ground.It must have resembled something other than the faithful,mathematical,measured movement of time.Too slow!"It's been too long."Or,"so quickly,the hours are rushing away,too many".It made no difference to the old town clock,none at all.
We went to the Sears catalog store and picked up a package for someone,though I'm not sure who.And we went across to the candy store,on the right hand side of the street as you go downhill.The owner greeted my father warmly,talking to him as he seemed to everyone,like they'd not quite left childhood behind,but that's the kind of place the candy store was.There were few people there that day.No children hanging about because it was early afternoon.It would be busy when the schools let out,busy with small kids each with a few pennies.
The shop owner scooped out three kinds of candy into three paper bags."Come again,Walter,It's good to see you,you need to come more often",the little man said,in thickly accented English.
We got into the car,with three bags of candy and headed out into the flats below the hill,where downtown was forgotten,where the air was bad,the houses dingy and the town's life blood once was taken from the ground beneath our feet.In past days.
And that is my first,my earliest memory of Springhill.
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