Old Values Die Hard
Old Values Die Hard - © Kent Fletcher
November 10, 2006
Many years ago when I was but a child, I remember going into the barbershop with my father when he got a haircut. A wondrous time and the cuts only cost a quarter or so. I think I remember when they went up to fifty cents, and thought it was robbery. Haircuts today run anywhere from ten bucks up, depending on where one goes. Of course some of them are free, like when one goes to boot camp or has a barber or hairstylist in the home.
Concerning the boot camp stuff, I remember that day pretty well. There were long-hairs and short-hairs in the group and a few with beards. Of course after telling the barber to leave a little, it was all gone in no time thanks to high-speed clippers. For the next twelve weeks, a trip to the barber was a community thing every two weeks. After a while the short hair kinda grew on me as an easier way of life.
After a four-year stint, I departed the Navy pattern, returning home for some much-needed rest. I also began to let my freak-flag fly, in the words of CSN&Y, letting the hair grow for all it was worth. Admittedly my hair was pretty thick back in those days, and being in the Mississippi Delta in the summertime was not particularly pleasant, especially with long, thick hair. It eventually reached my shoulders, but I never did grow a beard to amount to anything. Facial hair wasn't my bag - then.
After much soul-searching I decided to reenlist in the Navy in a special program. Doing my duty at Millington, just north of Memphis, I was already sworn in early in the morning, and went for the regulation haircut. On the way there I was busted by some second class Navy person for wearing Seafarers - a kind of dungarees or jeans - and being out of uniform. He also busted me for my hair. He was trying to impress the little girls in his group, and he did a pretty good job. Giggle, giggle, giggle, and off he strutted with these little girls on his bumper.
As I finally found the barbershop, I eased in and looked around. There was some airman, a student, getting his weekly trim in a chair and one of the barbers spoke up, "Can we help you, sir?" I told him I did need a haircut, kinda like that airman but not quite as short. When I told him I had just reenlisted, he brushed the hair off the chair and invited me to sit down. And away we went, clip, clip, clip, the hair falling in bundles to the floor.
Funny thing he worked on one side first. After the hair was off my ear, I said something like, "Wow, it feels so strange to feel the air conditioned air on my ear." With that statement he stopped clipping for a few minutes, swung the chair around, saying, "Well, if you think it feels funny, take a look at how your head looks!" An eye-opener, I'm telling you.
From then, November of 1975 until the day of my retirement ceremony in December 1995, I never again had hair that reached beyond the tops of my ears, except for the brief period of time I was but a drilling reservist, only wearing the uniform once a month. And still no beard, as the Chief of Naval Operations banned beards in 1977 or 78. I sported a mustache from time-to-time, but it was more hassle keeping that lip line to regulations than it was worth.
A razor had not touched my face since December 2, 1995. There were times when the beard reached nearly to my belly button, but that was rare. Most of the time it was within reason, as I didn't like the look of excess, for it got all scraggly, food got stuck in it, I tended to chew on the ends from time-to-time. However, in the winter it did serve a purpose by thwarting chilly winds. It's always nice to have a warm face, you know. On several occasions I did clip it short, short, usually when I erred on trimming it, or like back in February 06 when I clipped it short the day before my dental surgery.
My sister-in-law has been after me for years to cut the thing off. My surgeon has done the same. But no women-folk have mentioned it in all these years. Strange. Must be something about the beard that either attracts the women, or totally disagrees with them. But it was my face, and I really never cared what others thought of it. Until lately.
I've been watching other men in my community with various lengths of beards and mustaches. Some are quite handsome and quite characteristic of success and good living. However, there are others that are downright despicable, dirty, full of food or tobacco juice, yuck. So I started toying with the idea of getting rid of my own.
A couple of weeks ago I stopped by the barbershop I use locally and asked them if they still gave shaves. "Of course," they said, "step right in and we'll get to you shortly." I told them I was just asking and that I would be back in a week or so.
I've got a dinner to go to tomorrow night in Dallas, mostly old retired Navy Intel farts I served with back in the heyday. As I wrote earlier, I've not been without a beard since 1995, and as this is a reunion of sorts, I thought this day would be as good as any for a "fresh" look. So I tripped on down to the barbershop this afternoon, having made up my mind to get sheared and shaved. After all, it's not an everyday event, and the last time I got shaved was in Norfolk some thirteen or so years ago.
As I finally eased into the chair, the barber asked me what I wanted done. "Shave and a haircut, please, sir."
"You want me to shave your beard off, including the mustache?"
"Yep, I need a new look for a change. And if I don't like it, well, the beard can always grow back."
"How short you want the hair? Do you part it on one side or the other?"
"No, no parts. Imagine Frank Sinatra's hair, and how the hair lay on his head. That's what I want."
A fellow waiting to get his own haircut said, "Well, can you sing like Sinatra?"
Telling him I couldn't, and after several chuckles around the room, the barber started his task. In about thirty minutes I was slicker'n snot, all cleaned up, and ready to go jukin'. All this cost me $15, quite a way from the quarter or half-dollar haircuts and shaves of yesteryear. But when I walked out to the car, wouldn't you know it, the wind had turned briskly out of the north, and my face was chilled. Ugh! Don't like that!
But it is worth it. A good friend, looking quite astonished, said I looked five years younger than when she saw me this morning. Hm. Maybe that's a good omen. Besides the beard was totally white, a dead give-away to age, huh?
Old values die hard, sometimes, but this one did not. I think I'll hold this new value for a little while. And I better get a picture of this new look.
November 10, 2006
Many years ago when I was but a child, I remember going into the barbershop with my father when he got a haircut. A wondrous time and the cuts only cost a quarter or so. I think I remember when they went up to fifty cents, and thought it was robbery. Haircuts today run anywhere from ten bucks up, depending on where one goes. Of course some of them are free, like when one goes to boot camp or has a barber or hairstylist in the home.
Concerning the boot camp stuff, I remember that day pretty well. There were long-hairs and short-hairs in the group and a few with beards. Of course after telling the barber to leave a little, it was all gone in no time thanks to high-speed clippers. For the next twelve weeks, a trip to the barber was a community thing every two weeks. After a while the short hair kinda grew on me as an easier way of life.
After a four-year stint, I departed the Navy pattern, returning home for some much-needed rest. I also began to let my freak-flag fly, in the words of CSN&Y, letting the hair grow for all it was worth. Admittedly my hair was pretty thick back in those days, and being in the Mississippi Delta in the summertime was not particularly pleasant, especially with long, thick hair. It eventually reached my shoulders, but I never did grow a beard to amount to anything. Facial hair wasn't my bag - then.
After much soul-searching I decided to reenlist in the Navy in a special program. Doing my duty at Millington, just north of Memphis, I was already sworn in early in the morning, and went for the regulation haircut. On the way there I was busted by some second class Navy person for wearing Seafarers - a kind of dungarees or jeans - and being out of uniform. He also busted me for my hair. He was trying to impress the little girls in his group, and he did a pretty good job. Giggle, giggle, giggle, and off he strutted with these little girls on his bumper.
As I finally found the barbershop, I eased in and looked around. There was some airman, a student, getting his weekly trim in a chair and one of the barbers spoke up, "Can we help you, sir?" I told him I did need a haircut, kinda like that airman but not quite as short. When I told him I had just reenlisted, he brushed the hair off the chair and invited me to sit down. And away we went, clip, clip, clip, the hair falling in bundles to the floor.
Funny thing he worked on one side first. After the hair was off my ear, I said something like, "Wow, it feels so strange to feel the air conditioned air on my ear." With that statement he stopped clipping for a few minutes, swung the chair around, saying, "Well, if you think it feels funny, take a look at how your head looks!" An eye-opener, I'm telling you.
From then, November of 1975 until the day of my retirement ceremony in December 1995, I never again had hair that reached beyond the tops of my ears, except for the brief period of time I was but a drilling reservist, only wearing the uniform once a month. And still no beard, as the Chief of Naval Operations banned beards in 1977 or 78. I sported a mustache from time-to-time, but it was more hassle keeping that lip line to regulations than it was worth.
A razor had not touched my face since December 2, 1995. There were times when the beard reached nearly to my belly button, but that was rare. Most of the time it was within reason, as I didn't like the look of excess, for it got all scraggly, food got stuck in it, I tended to chew on the ends from time-to-time. However, in the winter it did serve a purpose by thwarting chilly winds. It's always nice to have a warm face, you know. On several occasions I did clip it short, short, usually when I erred on trimming it, or like back in February 06 when I clipped it short the day before my dental surgery.
My sister-in-law has been after me for years to cut the thing off. My surgeon has done the same. But no women-folk have mentioned it in all these years. Strange. Must be something about the beard that either attracts the women, or totally disagrees with them. But it was my face, and I really never cared what others thought of it. Until lately.
I've been watching other men in my community with various lengths of beards and mustaches. Some are quite handsome and quite characteristic of success and good living. However, there are others that are downright despicable, dirty, full of food or tobacco juice, yuck. So I started toying with the idea of getting rid of my own.
A couple of weeks ago I stopped by the barbershop I use locally and asked them if they still gave shaves. "Of course," they said, "step right in and we'll get to you shortly." I told them I was just asking and that I would be back in a week or so.
I've got a dinner to go to tomorrow night in Dallas, mostly old retired Navy Intel farts I served with back in the heyday. As I wrote earlier, I've not been without a beard since 1995, and as this is a reunion of sorts, I thought this day would be as good as any for a "fresh" look. So I tripped on down to the barbershop this afternoon, having made up my mind to get sheared and shaved. After all, it's not an everyday event, and the last time I got shaved was in Norfolk some thirteen or so years ago.
As I finally eased into the chair, the barber asked me what I wanted done. "Shave and a haircut, please, sir."
"You want me to shave your beard off, including the mustache?"
"Yep, I need a new look for a change. And if I don't like it, well, the beard can always grow back."
"How short you want the hair? Do you part it on one side or the other?"
"No, no parts. Imagine Frank Sinatra's hair, and how the hair lay on his head. That's what I want."
A fellow waiting to get his own haircut said, "Well, can you sing like Sinatra?"
Telling him I couldn't, and after several chuckles around the room, the barber started his task. In about thirty minutes I was slicker'n snot, all cleaned up, and ready to go jukin'. All this cost me $15, quite a way from the quarter or half-dollar haircuts and shaves of yesteryear. But when I walked out to the car, wouldn't you know it, the wind had turned briskly out of the north, and my face was chilled. Ugh! Don't like that!
But it is worth it. A good friend, looking quite astonished, said I looked five years younger than when she saw me this morning. Hm. Maybe that's a good omen. Besides the beard was totally white, a dead give-away to age, huh?
Old values die hard, sometimes, but this one did not. I think I'll hold this new value for a little while. And I better get a picture of this new look.
posted by Fletch @ 2:46 PM
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