Uncle Fred, one of those uncles I mentioned, was a barber. He worked out of Fredβs (same name, not an uncle) Barber Shop in downtown Birmingham, Michigan. Fredβs is still around, but in a newer shop, built in the late 1960s, a few doors down.
I did visit the shop on occasion, but the real magic happened in Uncle Fredβs basement, one of the most fascinating places in my childhood memory. It was fully finished, not with the cheap '60s paneling to come, but with real knotty pine and a proper bar. There were bar stools, liquor bottles, an array of mysterious paraphernalia, and, of extra special interest, the first pin-up calendar I had ever seen.
These weekend visits were more like gatherings, the uncles in the basement, the aunts upstairs. The center of the action was a small side utility room, where the focus was an 'honest to gosh' real barber chair. It was here I found myself seated, Dad and the uncles gathered around, long-neck beers in hand, and my turn for a two-bit haircut.
When I was very young, as photographic evidence shows, I had quite a head of golden, curly locks, a motherβs pride. Unfortunately, by the time my turn came, the uncles, my father, and Uncle Fred had already witnessed a few haircuts that day. Spirits were high, caution was low, and disaster hung heavy in the Brylcreem-scented air.
Being a Detroit crowd, this was most certainly a Goebel and Strohβs group. My dad, however, stood apart, his choice was Drewrys' Big D! With its Canadian Mountie crest proudly displayed on the bottle, my dad was, without question, the coolest dad ever.
Anyway, everyone was happy, and as the center of attention, I was the happiest of all. The cutting began: just a little off the top, a bit more, maybe trim the sides, maybe just a tad more... and...
The result: a #1!
Mother cried.
Now, Iβm not exactly sure about the science here, but like any bad haircut, it grew back. Unfortunately, my once curly, golden locks returned carrot red and straight as Brave Eagleβs arrow.
Mother cried some more.
I was a boy in 5th grade when we moved to DuBois, PA from Pittsburgh (among other places) On a Saturday morning, my mother dropped me off at the barber shop in our new neighborhood, on the East Side of town. While I waited for my haircut, the adult men who were there for their haircuts and social time got the topic of N****r's. And said, "They know not to move or come to DuBois, because we will be in the streets with our guns to greet them. That's why they know not to come here."
I had no reason to be pro or anti gun ownership, or pro or anti "diversity" but something in my 5th grade mind said, "This is wrong." About 60 years later I live here (again) and I still feel the same way...
You can learn a lot from visiting a barbershop!
Mother cried--I love it! I never went in much for haircuts and hence --the same style 63 years later. Mother sighed.