Short back and sides: the way it was in the good old days
WHEN I retired to the country I organised my trips to town to accommodate the need for a haircut. But I soon realised that letting the growth of your hair dictate your travel movements is ridiculous, so I decided to find a barber closer to home.
There was an old blade shearer at the pub who offered to do the deed but there was a twinkle in his eye which hinted at mayhem so I followed the example of several blokes who were regulars at the Ranfurly hairdressers.
Nominally a ladies’ salon, it has long been happy to handle most things apart from sheep dagging and dog grooming. So a pleasant half hour was spent with Melissa.
She knew I wanted a haircut and just got on with it, unlike the rather more precious barbers who ask you what you would like. Then again, I suppose there are males who actually want a particular type of haircut. Pretty decadent types, those. I once went to a Wellington barber who trimmed my eyebrows! Strange bloke.
But as I dozed gently in the sun at the Ranfurly hairdresser’s, I was reminded of haircuts of old times and realised that the oldfashioned barber’s shop was something rather special.
For a lad growing up in 1950s Timaru the barber shop was an attraction. The mixed aroma of 10 different pipe tobaccos, bay rum and the smell unique to cockies who have come in to town for the day was a heady mixture.
From about the age of 7 I was sent off with a shilling every month or so to the shop of
Edward Pratt in Stafford St where an old carpetcovered apple box was added to the seating arrangements so that my head would reach the barber’s line of sight. Mr Pratt and his assistant George spent their days in their large back room which was festooned with mirrors. While not cutting hair they could be found reading the paper while waiting to cut hair.
They were always smoking, even while cutting hair in George’s case. Ashtrays were everywhere. Of course, apart from a ‘‘How’s school, son?’’ there was no conversing with a mere kid.
Instead, the drone of male talk held me spellbound. Much of it was about racing and the radio on the high shelf was tuned always to 3YA which on race days delivered the litanies of commentator Dave Clarkson. The Clarkson commentary was a work of audio art and it was as much part of my childhood soundscape as the calliope music of the Caroline Bay merrygoround.
Horse racing talk seemed to be of horses rather than betting, so I imagine the barber was no bookie. Anyway, the TAB was not far away. The men at the barbers would also talk rugby and by the time of the greatest tour of all time (the 1956 Springboks) I was old enough to understand what they spoke of.
I don’t remember women being talked about, perhaps a touch of ‘‘not in front of the boy’’ or even a throwback to never mentioning a woman’s name in the mess.
I suspect now that many men came to Pratt’s simply to pass the time of day. Five pubs were within a hundred yards and the barber shop could provide an oasis as these lost souls tramped from bar to bar.
There was plenty to read at Pratt’s. The Timaru Herald, of course, but also a pile of nonchallenging literature like Pix, Australasian Post and Best Bets. There may have been the odd Man magazine, but I never saw one openly displayed.
With age came more awareness of the mysteries of the barber shop world. Apparently, if the barber asked you, ‘‘And something for the weekend, sir?’’ he was offering to slip a pack of contraceptives into your tobacco order. Sadly, I never heard a barber use the phrase, surely the supreme euphemism?
Perhaps things were kept clean at Pratt’s because the owner’s daughter served behind the counter and so small were the premises that she could hear all that was said in the saloon. (Salon was the name reserved for a female hairdressing establishment).
For a 10yearold boy, though, hearing the odd swear word and listening to the throaty chuckles of grown men after jokes I didn’t understand was part of the appeal of the oldtime barber shop. In fact, for me it’s much the same today when I’m in the pub.
When I was old enough, my grandfather told me the great Timaru barber story and it should be told now in case it is lost forever.
From 1910, and for many years afterwards, a barber shop in Stafford St south was owned by Ernest Firkin. Every wouldbe comedian in the town, each time his hair had grown sufficiently, would announce that he was off to have a Firkin haircut. Simple times, but great days in the old home town.