The Chimes

Issue date: 10/23/08 Section: Lifestyles

When I was growing up I had the best barber.
There is no question about this in my mind whatsoever, and in the almost five years that it has been since I was at that barbershop I have never found any haircutting experience to be remotely similar.
The shop was in the basement of this old office building, and from the street it was nearly impossible to see the tiny neon sign that peeked its head up from just under the ground.
It was as if the shop was a secret, privileged information reserved for only the fortunate few in town who had found a way into the circle.
Down one flight of old stairs and through an imposing white door was a world unto itself, an old time mix of 70's décor and 50's hospitality; a small underground haircutting sanctuary from the conveniences of modern life.
The couches were a perfectly ugly orange and brown, and the countertops were all that old fake wood that's basically gray. There were glass shelves that sold old fashioned shaving cream, toothpaste, and even those single giant blades people used to actually shave with.
Everything was exactly as you'd expect it to be in an old time barbershop, right down to my haircutter's name.
I met Bob the barber when I was probably 12 or 13, and he was cautious with me.
I'm sure I was one of the few customers under 40 that Bob was considering for entry into the private haircutting club I described earlier.
We hit it off when I started whistling to the Frank Sinatra tunes that were almost constantly being played through a late 40's radio - I'm not making this up, this place was that cool.
How my dad met Bob is a mystery to me, but it probably has something to do with the fact that they're both Italian.
On a side note, all Italian men believe that they carry an innate ability to cut hair. This is not true.
Ask my dad. It didn't work out so well for him, or me, his only customer.
No, not every Italian man is Bob Grega. That man could cut hair, and except in emergencies (like the one necessitated by my dad's infamous haircut), he would cut mine for the next six years.
I think even as a teenager I was aware that I had something that most people didn't.
I think I understood that the experience I was getting didn't belong in contemporary society, that it was one of a few remaining ways to tap into a time that didn't place emphasis on the fastest and the cheapest right this very second.
A few years before I left for college, Bob's haircutting partner of 30 years left for a better gig. A sign of the times, perhaps.
Bob took a job as a school bus driver to supplement his income, and even though things were rough for a while, he kept everything exactly the same at the shop.
As far as I know, he's still there giving people the best haircuts of their lives.
If I ever wind up in my hometown with longer than acceptable hair, I'm going to finally stop in and tell him how much that means to me. Me and anyone else who can still appreciate a good haircut or a good shave, no matter how long it takes.
fdipiero@capital.edu

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