My Barber's Dead

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I bet I can name every barber I've had back to five years old.

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I have to go with nicknames for the first two, because I don't know their real names.

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Herman the German & Mickey Mouse with his wife with Tourette's Syndrome on York Avenue. She sat next to you in the always empty second chair and on and off through the haircut screamed obscenities into your ear. Herman the German fogged me into the chair during haircuts with his cigarette smoke.

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Breaking away from crew cuts, I went to Gino at Claremont's Men's Hair Stylist also on York. Here we discovered sideburns and threw away our butch sticks. Then, Antonino in Bay Ridge who played Italian Opera on Saturday morning while stingily sipping red wine out of a coffee cup, a little wine always rested on his pencil moustache before his cat tongue took it home. After, there was pretty Angeline who cost too much, but I didn't care because her face in my face for a half hour was heaven. Angeline moved to Jersey then it was off to Lydia on Beekman Street next to the hat store where my Dad got his hat blocked in the 50s'. Then David, my Russian comrade across the street from the Trade Center until September 11th.

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Following 9/11 a Chinese chicken salesman cut my hair when we were exiled to LIC while our work building went through repairs for three years. Mr. Hom had a barber's chair right next to the chicken coops in his basement on Jackson Avenue.

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Finally, coming full circle (almost) ~ I was back at Claremont Men's Hair Stylist in their new location on 83rd Street and First Avenue. Claremont's owner is a Yorkville land baron and moved the store from one of his buildings to another. Four months ago, I plotted my next haircut tying it to a doctor appointment day to avoid waiting on a Saturday morning. When I got to the store at 11am the windows were white washed with a little hand written sign telling the postman where to leave the mail. My barber who I already lost once in my life was dead. Or moved elsewhere leaving no forwarding address for my wild poet head.

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Not to be denied, I remembered somewhere between the subway stop and York Avenue there was a barber pole, I definitely remembered the swirling stripes on the pole. After a few passes, I located my the barber on 84th Street right next to Doctor Higgins the Vet's office.

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Not too shabby, cut my hair nice, would of made Floyd of Mayberry proud, "real proud, Andy." Can't tell you his name, his English, not so good. But I'll try to keep him on life support.

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