Boys' Hair Cuts: The Barber Shop


Figure 1.--

The trip to the barber shop later became a monthly ritual. At first with his dad, armed with detailed instructions from mom, and then by himself as he begins to develop his own ideas about how his hair should be styled. The traditional American barber shop was a male preserve. They were stocked with sports and fishing magazines. Barbers were always men. Mother would never venture there. Dad brought the boys--but mother always gave him instructions on how the boys' hair should be cut. After a while, boys would go by themselves--at least before the exodus to the suburbs and a car was needed for trans portation.

Personal Experiences

When I was growing up our barber shop was about seven blocks away from our home. Until I was about nine or ten, my dad would take me there and wait with me until the barber had finished my haircut. As I grew a little older, I'd ride my bicycle to the barber. As simple as the route to the barber shop was, determining when I was due for a haircut was even easier. Most of the time dad initiated the topic. He would look at my ears to see whether the hair was too close, then he'd inspect the back to see if the hair looked scruffy. If this test should happen to prove inconclusive, dad had one final examination: if he could grab a handful of hair in the back, it was time for me to see the barber. Until I was about six, I needed the boy's seat placed on the barber's chair for the barber to achieve the proper haircutting stance. Like most boys, the barber would have to position and reposition my head constantly throughout this ordeal, even to the point of holdingmy head with one hand and cutting with other! As he cut, I'd thumb through a comic book. (This diversion was lost to me when I turned eight; I turned out to be a nearsighted young gentleman, and the barber would have to take my glasses for the duration of the haircut.) I remember how the barber's lather and razor used to tickle my neck and around my ears as he shaved these places near the end of the haircut. When the barber began to thin out my hair on top, I knew the end was near, and I could be on my way to other things.

If I were sent to get a haircut after school, I wore my school clothes, didn't stop to change. Typically, a dress shirt and slacks for late fall, winter, and early spring and slip-on shoes or lace-ups. Our school system had a conservative dress code, and I think most parents and students then didn't really object. In warmer spring and fall weather and summer months white cotton T shirts, short sleeved pull overs, and khaki or navy blue shorts, white crew socks, and tennis shoes were a virtual uniform for us, all the way through high school. Beginning with the 7th grade, shorts were not allowed for boys or girls, except for gym. White cotton T shirts were out, also, but there were collarless shirts, they had a little penguin logo, were worn by a lot of guys. As long as the shirt was tucked in and "tasteful" to the administration, there were no problems. Dress slacks probably prevailed back then, but you'd see a lot of clean Levis, too. I was never too fond of Levis, and usually wore blended dress slacks of blue, gray, or tan. Loafers, lace ups, even wing-tips for some aspiring Beau Brummels in junior and high schools, but also a mixture of athletic shoes were our footwear. So, after about age twelve, wearing shorts was on your own time, not school time, and with warm weather starting some years as early as April and lasting into late September (with comebacks in the Fall) shorts were a well exercised option for most boys in the South; with most boys wearing shorts to escape the humid heat, teasing was not a problem.

As the end of the haircut approached, the barber would apply some fragrant hair tonic to my now much shorter hair, part said hair sharply on my left side, and comb the top carefully. Before removing the sheet which covered my chest and lap, the barber would brush off stray hairs from my face and neck (it seems that the brush had been dusted in some sweet smelling talc). With that the protective sheet was unpinned, and I was helped down when I was small, or shown the results in a hand held mirror when I was a little older. With glasses returned, my dad paid the barber when I was little; I did after I was old enough to go to the barber by myself. Up until I was about fourteen, the barber would give us kids a pack of bubble gum with a baseball card in it. The gum was pink and rather stiff, but with a few good chews easily could be blown into bubbles. Well, didn't I shine like a new penny after this treatment, which occurred about every two to three weeks. That seemed to be how long my hair could grow before dad said it's time for a haircut. The most bothersome part of the haircut was the remaining tiny hairs that would caught on the collar of my shirt (T-shirts seemed especially bad for this). Mom had a sure-fire cure that I found worse than the disease - "You could always take a bath and put on a fresh shirt," she'd say. What a dilemma for a boy! Until I was about fourteen, I was happy to follow dad's haircut instructions, "Tell him you want a regular haircut." When the Beatles invaded, I was not struck on them, as some of my friends were. Their hairstyle looked a little ridiculous to me. I was in the minority, so it seemed. A lot of boys gradually forsook crewcuts and short regular haircuts for somewhat longer styles. Now, what does a traditionalist like me do?

until I was about 14-15 the old standard regular haircut was fine for me, but as friends and peers opted for a shaggier look, I didn't want to look behind the times. My parents didn't quite see it that way. The summer I was 14 and a half, my hair was not particularly long (this was the "Summer of -Love, 1967, when "hippie" was becoming a household word), but too long to be tolerated at home. My grandparents were visiting us that summer, and one morning my granddad said he needed a haircut. My dad decided this could become a family event. We all went together, of course, grandad, dad,me, and my growing sense of foreboding. Well,dad gave the barber specific instructions as to how to cut my hair, and he and granddad sat back to enjoy. When it was all over, I gained a new appreciation for the term "whitesidewalls" around the sides and back, and on top my hair wasn't quite long enough to need a comb for about a week. It was wash and wear hair. Until I was a high school grad, the length of my hair waxed and waned thus. In college, I was on my own. Over the ears, toching the collar hair, even scraggly sideburns. At home, it was tolerated, not applauded, but tolerated. Then about my senior year of college, I was ahead of the trend towards shorter hair for guys. In 1975, my first year of grad school, I came home with a short regular cut that made dad elated. And I still have that cut to this day, even if I now look like a poor man's Ben Stein!




Christopher Wagner

histclo@lycosmail.com


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Created: April 22, 2000
Last updated: April 27, 2000