Somewhere south of University Avenue and east of 30th
Street is a mysterious barber shop in a white stucco box-shaped storefront with a dirty window and
a striped pole that doesn’t turn. There’s an old barber sitting in a wooden
chair along the wall facing the big barber chair which has never been occupied
since I first noticed the place 19 years ago. The old barber wasn’t as old
then, but he wasn’t young, either – his skin has always been a dull orange,
creased by long wrinkle-lines, giving him a basketball look. He wore then and
wears now a neat black moustache, making his constant frown look even more
hangdog and severe. His hair is perpetually neat, which has always made me
think he somehow cuts it himself, probably every day. The barber doesn’t look
dexterous enough to do that, which is one reason I consider him and his shop to
be mysterious.
Another point of mystery is how he keeps his shop in
business. I may have seen one customer in there over the past 19 years, but he
wasn’t sitting in the barber chair, so he was probably a bill collector or an
election canvasser.
Many times, I’ve thought about going into the barber shop
and getting a haircut. It gives me a weird feeling to consider doing this – it would
be like going to a strange church and taking part in the ritual of a faith I know
nothing about. But who would do a thing like that, for no good reason? So I
stand on the other side of the street and I stare into the barber shop for a
half-minute or so. Nothing ever changes
as time goes by. Of course, I have and still do, which makes the barber shop
more and more mysterious.
