I don't remember if I cried during my first visit to the barber like some little boys did traumatized by the buzzing clippers, the evil-looking razor strop and near misses with the scissors. But I do remember being mightily pissed that I had little to say about the style. There were three choices: short, shorter, and scalped - each with a latent bowl cut. Twice a month without fail at 25 cents a pop. I was fascinated by grownups arguing issues of the day. Always teased by Mister Messick about the same girlfriend. Always entertained by Mister Sophie's pulsing, heaving, honking laugher. Like a clap of thunder.
© r0825-06 Son of Docs Barber Shop
Webster Springs, West Virginia
Sunday 4 June 1995