Charlie’s Barbershop

During the 1950s, Charlie’s Barbershop was in the heart of Great Village. It was a two-story building, with the shop on the ground floor and an apartment above it.

Charlie’s shop was a single room with large windows facing the road. A red and white striped pole spun outside the door, the universal symbol for a men’s barbershop. Services available included haircuts, shaves, and beard trimming. As soon as you entered, you were struck by the scent of aftershave mixed with the lingering aromas of tobacco smoke and his wood burning, pot-belly stove.

Charlie’s barbershop wasn’t fancy. The scuffed wooden floor covered in places with hair clippings, a few miscellaneous chairs, and a cabinet to the left of his work area, filled with straight razors, combs, and glass jars containing blue disinfectant liquid used to sterilize his shears, combs, and brushes. A large mirror, hung on the wall behind his barber chair, so customers could check themselves out and give that nod of approval. On the walls were many old photographs, a couple of old calendars, and some newspaper clippings, mostly about horses.

Charlie’s busiest time was Saturday nights. Local farmers in overalls waited their turn, reading the local paper or sharing stories. In the barbers chair, my brother would be seated high on a special leather booster seat, with a strip of paper wrapped around his neck and then the cape wrapped around the paper to keep the hair clippings from landing on his clothes, as he listened to Charlie telling stories while watching Charlie cut his hair in the mirror.

Charlie had a special Fuller Brush with a wooden handle, which he used to brush hair off the cape before removing it. Charlie would hand that brush to me, I would work industriously around old Charlie’s feet, sweeping the hair trimmings into neat little piles. Father sat on a nearby chair with a proud smile as he watched us both.

Charlie probably wasn’t all that old at the time, but to me at 4 years of age, he was old. There was no television, no smartphones, just conversation among the men and Charlie. Many of the men smiled and commented as I swept up the hair clippings with Charlie’s special brush.

His barbershop served as a gathering place for the men of the community. My brother’s haircut would usually end with a little hand mirror held behind his head so he could inspect his fresh cut in the mirror in front of him, then a gentle pat on the shoulder, he’d be picked up and put down on the floor. Sometimes Charlie would give each of us a lollipop, which always brought smiles to our faces.

One summer, on Saturday night, as Dad parked his truck, I noticed a little girl and her mother sitting on the steps leading up to the upstairs apartment over Charlie’s barbershop. Little did I know then that she and I would become lifelong friends. Many haircut nights for my brother and Dad, I would spend the time upstairs with her, playing house with our dolls. But one September night when she wasn’t home, I stayed in the barbershop with my brother and Dad. That visit to Charlie’s barbershop was one I shall never forget.

The room was crowded with men and a few boys who were probably teenagers, all waiting their turn in the barber’s chair. The surrounding chairs were full, so some guys were standing against the wall near the door. My brother and I sat on Dad’s knees. Charlie was cutting an older man’s hair when the door opened and in walked another fellow. Charlie glanced up to see who it was, and greeted him with, “Hi Tommy.”

Everybody knew Tommy, even Dad, but not us kids. Tommy was perhaps in his 20s, very talkative, and walked with a limp as he made his way over to stand near the stove. Charlie had finished cutting the older man’s hair, and now another fellow was in the barber’s chair.

Charlie was just arranging the cape around the man’s neck when Tommy fell to the floor. One fellow yelled, “Tommy’s having a fit!” Most everyone knew what was happening.

Dad tightened his grip on us, saying, “He’ll be okay in a few minutes.” I was scared stiff. I had never witnessed anything like this before. To this day I remember seeing him lying on the floor shaking, stiffening, jerking, and thrashing around as Charlie and a couple of men were now down on the floor beside him.

I turned my head away; I didn’t want to see what was happening. Father in a low voice just said, “Don’t be scared, he won’t hurt you.”

When Tommy’s seizure ended, the men helped him up off the floor and sat him on a chair. That was one night I didn’t offer to sweep up the hair clippings on the barbershop floor, in fact, I never moved from Dad’s knee.

A few years later we were told that Tommy had epilepsy, a brain disorder characterized by recurrent, unprovoked seizures, commonly known as “fits”. I have no other memories of Tommy, and I don’t know if the seizures worsened as he grew older.