Industrial Men

I cannot quite get my head around the men I see in New York State. I have no problem in New York City but up here in the north, I just don’t know. There is a strong tendency towards Willie Nelson, but I cannot leave Hulk Hogan out of the mix. And then there is the southern element or is it country, not quite. It is hard bitten if you can imagine that.

All I know is that it makes me want to shave my beard close, trim my eye lashes, make sure I do not have any hair growing out of my ears and well, get a haircut with scissors and not with a buzz saw. It is NASCAR, Harley-Davidson, Willie Nelson, Florida crackers, and Garth Brooks all wrapped into one package. It would be scary if everyone weren’t so nice.

Of course, I am dressed in early Nordic Tug preppy with some sailing tendencies, along with styling by Patagonia. Part of this look may be my who-gives-a-sh#t-what-I’m-wearing-as-long-as-it-works philosophy, and part of it pure opportunism. Observing the populace is compelling, like flipping thru the pages of Vogue’s Adirondack Edition. That said it has unnerved me enough to reach out to a trusted friend with a plea to restrain me and shave my head if I attempt to grow a ponytail.

Practicing medicine kept me fairly well groomed. I have had a beard since residency but it is short, a 16th to an 8th inch long. I fantasized going back to my big beard of long ago when I retired. I did not. I looked in the mirror as my beard lengthened, and saw Father Time looking at me over my shoulder and promptly trimmed it short again.

I have always had difficulty staying well groomed. In the first of many traumatic grooming events in my life, Bruno, a sweet Calabria barber, who had been cutting my hair since high school, moved to the suburbs. I followed for a while, years really. Then with my entire professional life on the Southside of Chicago, I searched for someone closer. Finding another barber was not an easy task.

With Charlotte’s encouragement, I found Rex the barber, in Andersonville. Andersonville is an area of Chicago first settled by, you guessed correctly, the Swedes. It went through some bad times and now is a wonderful quirky neighborhood with a mix of immigrants, young families, and a single’s scene of thirty-something’s with a strong gay and lesbian bent.

Rex was the equivalent of Seinfeld’s Soup Nazi, but he liked me. Sitting in his closet sized shop he would catch up on Charlotte and my doings, and often when other clients would come in, I would get to hear the gay gossip of Clark Street.

One day, in serious need of a haircut I walked by his shop and saw an interior decorators touch through the window. I kept walking, knowing that this could not be Rex. And sure enough, he was gone. My heart ached, selfishly not for him but for me. How was I going to find another Rex? Desperate, I went to one of those corporate haircut shops located in strip malls.

Andersonville also has my favorite Middle Eastern grocery store that I have been frequenting for 30 years. One day I found myself walking out of its front door and there in front of me, across Foster Avenue, was the Esquire barbershop.

Barbershop is the key word. No other pretentions. It is located in a worse for wear storefront. I crossed the street and walked by it a few times. It was rough around the edges—even better. In the front window lay an ancient Pug with its tongue half out of its mouth. I rushed home and using the Great Google found its odd website. I worked through the convoluted scheduling process and made an appointment.

It worked out. I had a few haircuts from a big sports minded guy and then quite by accident switched to Tara. With her, at least I can talk about stuff I know something about. But I apologize; this has been a long way of telling you, that Tara suggested a buzz cut as opposed to scissors.

She quite bluntly told me that it takes time for old balding dudes to come to grips with the fact that the hair on the top of their bean is not worth saving. And so following her instructions I now have a buzz cut. My mother — bless her soul — forced buzz cuts on me, or as it was known then, crew cuts when I was a round little kid and I hated them. Now I see the wisdom in her decision.

As I write this on Carrie Rose at the junction of the Erie and Champlain Canals in Waterford, New York, I wonder how men’s hair will change, if at all, as we close in on New York City. Soon it will be time for me to search out a barber. I had better start looking in the small towns along the Hudson River, and be prepared to give my scalp to a barber whose business has been starved by the proliferation of ponytails.