A Good Haircut
“An admonition directed at me countless times by my mother, my father, my uncles, my superiors, and on and on. I grew up in the late 60s and the 70s. Long hair was Even a hairy chest was cool, as evidenced by disco shirts open the navel. I remember an advertisement in the late 70s which claimed, “
Really? 80 percent? Now, that seemed a bit high for about 5 percent of your overall body surface. And maybe a bit unfair, too. My dad was bald. I don’t mean Phil Collins bald with a thinning top, or Homer Simpson bald with a fringe around ears and back. I mean cue ball bald, bald-asan-egg bald. And if couldn’t have hair, I couldn’t either.
My father, the career military NCO, held that a good barber was as necessary as a doctor or a mechanic. And men did go to stylists at the “beauty shop,” they went to barbershops. (Women went to a stylist to get their hair “fixed”, not cut, and also to discuss their soap opera stories.)
In the late 1960s, in our little hamlet between Sonoraville and Fairmount, having long hair was tantamount to waving a Communist Russian flag, or being one of “them ole’ hippies” unwashed, unshaven, unkempt, and probably high. And you just didn’t do it, hence our every-other-Saturday trip to see the barber in Fairmount, M.L. Fuller.
I don’t remember too much about Mr. Fuller, except that his shop was on the square next to the beauty shop. He had a nickname that sounded like ‘Diego’ and he had 2 basic haircuts for us kids: the “all off” or the “white sidewalls.” The “all off” was just that: all hair growth reduced to 2 millimeters. The closest you could come to making a kid who loved the Beatles bald and super-uncool. I wondered later if Mr. Fuller ever served in the Marines, as every time I left I looked like a 6year-old arrival at Parris Island.
Occasionally, my uncles would take us (some of my 27 cousins and I) for our bi-weekly haircuts. “White sidewalls,” where you were allowed centimeters of growth on top, but each side cut so close your un-sunned skin shone white. One of my female cousins was greatly amused by the sight of a returning carload of newly shorn recruits, and never failed to laugh at us. I should’ve punched her, but she was just as tough as us boys but a right smart meaner. I secretly think she was just a little jealous of our haircuts, and she would’ve made a very good Marine.
When I was a little older and most of the roads were paved, I’d go to the barbershop in the old Gordon Hills shopping center. A Saturday trip there was both informative and entertaining. The Campbell brothers, Fred and Frank, were two of the finest men I’ve ever known. I was especially good friends with Frank, as he was a Scoutmaster and I a Boy Scout. He never failed to ask me about my progress in Scouting and sports. A visit to their shop guaranteed you listening to them argue about taxes, baseball, or whether or not your taste buds “matured” at age 40. All hilarious to an 11- yearold boy.
When my mom would let me go alone, it was as if I was actually a grown man, and I would always try to get him to leave a little more on top than my mom tolerated. But the more heated the argument, the shorter the haircut. I will never forget the sweet aroma of the Pinaud aftershave in the Campbell’s shop. I never got any splashed on me, but I was sure that if I did, I would soon thereafter be the owner of a pick up truck with a gun rack, the true indicator of manhood.
Occasionally, Frank would have to discuss his chicken houses with his wife on the phone. He never broke stride though, and could scissor, comb, and discuss the broilers with the receiver propped on his shoulder as if he had three hands. No matter that there were occasional casualties in the way of a nicked ear, it was worth it to get to read and listen to the debate.
The last touch was getting the hair residue off your neck, back, and clothes. Calhoun being more technologically advanced than eastern Gordon County, Frank had an
that blew the hair off you with hurricane force wind. And then came the powder. It was white, it smelled good, and it was applied liberally. Just that powder? I still don’t know what was in it, or exactly what is was for, but you always got a cloud of it after the haircut. Maybe it was stylist repellant. And the saving grace to getting short haircuts in the early 1970s, when I wanted to look like Jimmy Page, was that it kinda grew back in 2 weeks and there was the never ending hope I could talk mom out of the next one.
I grew up and started getting haircuts wherever it was convenient. One job assignment allowed me a ponytail for a couple of years. Wow, the 70s all over again, just not as cool. Looking back I realize what an adult I imagined myself at the barbershop, listening to the real grown men and reading sports magazines. And I remember those fine men, Mr. Fuller, and Fred and Frank Campbell, and I realize that we are a lesser place for their passing. I miss those days very much.