Bye. The Numbers

My boy called the other day. My boy. Listen to me. My boy. My boy’s 40-something, nearly 50 year’s old. Can you imagine? I still call him ‘my boy. Maybe I’m getting old. What am I talking about? Hell, I an old! Damn old. I remember things, though, like when he was a little kid and I’d carry him to bed, and when I was the biggest hero in his life. He once said he wanted to marry me. It was funny in those days, but who know now – might be legal somewhere. Trans-gender. Trans-fats. Trans-something. Include me out.

What a kid he was. I remember more about him at five than I do at 15 or 25. Those years went by, didn’t say?

I forget a lot now. Less important things. I have a special ring on the phone to tell me when it’s him because, frankly, I don’t care to speak to many other people. And unless my hearing’s gone worse, it seems not a lot of people care to speak to me either. Anyway, at my age, did I mention how damn old I was?, It’s usually to tell me that so and so died if they were lucky or had a stroke and drooled your name. I don’t get so many of those these days. Not many of the old crew around.

I do get guys with Indian accents calling up. They tell me their name is something like Eric or Charlie from the Samson Pharmacy and it’s time to renew my Viagra. I don’t know how I got on that list and sure as heck don’t know how to get off off. That forgetting thing? I surely don’t rememvber the last time I could have used a Viagra! If Cathy was around she’d laugh at that. You bet.

That special ring, the one for my boy, also gets me up because I don’t get them too often you know. I get it, he’s busy, got a family of his own, young kids, later than most, and is three hours ahead. Wait, I’m three hours ahead, he’s behind. Is that right? Well, it’s later here than it is there.
But that ring, boy, that ring really brings me to life.

He called to tell me he’d taken Travis, his boy, for a haircut, a buzz cut. What type of name is Travis anyway? With a name like that he should have been at the Alamo or singing country western songs. “Dad, The barber told me I should do it! Give Travis a buzz cut and save the 35 dollars!
She? His barber’s a she? 35 bucks? Welcome to Silicon Valley.

“Dad, remember that guy from Tony’s? The one who taught you?”

Do I remember? I didn’t tell him I remember it every goddamn day! Too much time on my hands I suppose. And if I forget sometimes, I’m reminded when I look at the picture of me giving him a haircut, with some of the hair inside the frame. Cath took the photo. We were all laughing.

He teased about me teaching him. “Thanksgiving,” he said, “He’ll need a haircut by then. If we can make it back east.” If we can make it back east. He said that, what, 18 months ago, too.

Still, I had to smile that he bothered to call at all, and especially to remind me of that haircut. Nixon was still president. That day when my then little boy and I went for a haircut at Tony’s. I can’t think of haircuts without thinking of that day, that barber.

He was Louie. Mr. Louie we called him. I forget his last name and, funny, I’m not sure I ever knew it. It was just Mr. Louie at Tony’s. Tony was just Tony. Who knew the last names of barbers in those days? It’s not like now when they have their own business cards and websites and what not.

Mr. Louie. A sweet man, the moms would say, shy smile. He was older than me I think. Looked older anyway. He had bright blue eyes, you couldn’t miss them, and wore this wire rim glasses with a chip off the lens. He was a bit short, but stooped like he’d hurt his back once. The guys waiting for their haircuts would joke, in whisper mind you, that that’s why Louie cut the kids’ hair. I didn’t think it was funny. Back pains is no fun, let me tell you.

He would look away sometimes, not for long, just stare off, and then come back with those shiny blue eyes and get back to work. The other barbers never said anything about. They were constantly teasing each other, joking around. That’s the way it was in neighborhood barbershops in those days. But they let Louie be alone with himself.

And, anyway, he was a good barber, especially with young boys.
Tony’s was an old fashioned place you don’t see much any more. It was old even then; popular culture was turning guys like Tony into stylists who did less cutting and more blow drying into shaggy styles that would last for, oh, about 20 minutes and compelled men to spend too much time in front of mirrors reconvening their hairs into gravity defying billows. Articulate, ain’t I!

Or they’d have white guys do up with Afros. A guy in my office called them Isros or Afro-hebrews. Now don’t look crossed eyed at me; his name was Sam Minsky and we went to his son’s party, the Bar Mitzvah.

That Tony’s held to tradition; simple haircuts, men and boys only. No coloring, no hot-combs, and if there was waxing it was on mustaches. Or the floor. Combs swam in this blue disinfecting solution, tissue paper wrapped around your neck, hot shaving cream came out of a machine and straight-edged razors were stropped on those leather belts, not the fake types with inserts they use now. Those belts hung from chairs that could be set back all the way.

They still did shaves in those days. In barber school they practiced on balloons I was told. I liked that. And they had out-of-date men’s magazines in the waiting area. I watched teenagers trying to look serious leafing through the pages and desperately crossing the legs. Ha. And adolescents giggling gagga-eyed over them, usually one right after the other. Grown men, too, come to think of it.

There were five barbers including Tony. They all wore white tunics that made them look like dentists, and only one of them was under 60. They had accents, three Italian, and Gerry who was off-the-boat Irish. He smelled of whiskey, any time of the day. The over shaving cream and witch-hazel aftershave couldn’t mask it. But his hand was steady which is what you want when getting a shave.

It doesn’t exist anymore, Tony’s, which is a shame. Little Tony sold it to Gerry, who drank himself out of business once he didn’t have Tony keeping an eye on him. I don’t know what happened to the other guys. Retired to Florida, but I’m probably making that up.

Cath always warned me against having Gerry cut our hair. “He drinks you know, like a fish, and I don’t want him near our boy.” It was Cath who first said I should ask for Louie. ““Wait for Mr. Louie. He’s very nice. All the mom’s like him. Doesn’t say much though. European.” He’s sort of sad in a way,” she’d said. “Quiet, but he loves kids. You can see that. He does magic tricks. He’s the only barber Nicholas isn’t scared of.”

Actually, Gerry wasn’t so good with the kids anyway. He whispered dirty jokes too loudly and no matter what you asked for always did the same sort of cut. He did have this vibrating massager, I remember that, that fit over the back of his hand and shook like an earthquake that gave your scalp a seriously invigorating rub that he swore would revive nerves and slow balding. Just writing earthquake made me think of my son out there.

When he wasn’t around Tony would joke he hired Gerry because the local Irish mafia said to – “Not all wise guys are Italian, eh!” Rumor had it he had a record in Ireland and Gerry would say he had lots of them, but no turntable. Vinnie was Tony’s brother in law who had suspiciously too black hair that he greased back like some lounge singer.

Angelo was ex Navy who left Italy because of Mussolini “thata faschiste,” you’ll pardon me, “bastardo” whose spit when he got excited. “Say it, don’t spray it, Ange” was a common refrain from his customers. Angelo used his thumbs for neck massages. He complained about Gerry’s machine – “he’s a gonna ‘lectrocute someday, you watch.”

Little Tony was Tony’s nephew and had the worst haircut in the place. He’d say again and again, that was a sign he was the best barber. “We cut each other’s hair, right? The guy with the best haircut was done by me.” He was the most American of the lot, got wounded at the Battle of the Bulge, and had his decorations in a shadow box, up on the wall. He was also the spitting image of Chico Marx.

Little Tony was constantly in motion. Today they’d say he had ADD or something because every few minutes he’d walk away from his chair, look outside, pop a hard candy in his mouth from the bowl near cash register, and then get back to work.

Then there was the quiet guy at the end, Louie. Louie had a Jewish accent, the type Mel Brooks would use, the type you don’t hear any more. He had little to say beyond “nice day, no?” or “You got a little dandruff maybe. Try a pine tar shampoo.” Who ever heard of pine tar shampoo? That probably was a handicap in the barber business.

While the others would tease each other, sing out opera or some Irish ballad – Gerry had a remarkable tenor voice – they gave Louie space. They didn’t avoid him, there was no sense of dislike, just that he was treated a bit delicately. “Hey Mr. Lou, I’m going out for sangwichs. You in.” “Thanks you, no” he’d always say. “I brought for myself.” But they always asked.

And his haircuts were good. He took his time, maybe too much time, and didn’t have much to say. Maybe that’s why his chair was more empty then the other’s. Louie was the one who was good with the kids. It was a given. He’d pinch a cheek, give a lollipop, or a toy with a smile and those sad eyes. Little kids loved when he gave them these fake shaves with hot shaving cream and the dull back side of the razor. And he’d borrow that massager from Gerry. He’d tell to keep their mouths open when he’d tell the to say “ahhh” like at a doctor’s. They loved that, too. He was our barber and you know how these things are; once you have your barber you stick with him.

Oh, the magic tricks. He’d take a half dollar and make it disappear and then pull it from a kid’s ear. If the boy was scared he’d ask, “Do you know where it is?” and then take it from the kid’s armpit, tickling them. “It’s under the arm! It’s under the arm!”

Louie took a red handkerchief, stuffed it in his hand, voila, it was gone. I still can’t figure that one out. He did card tricks, too. If he said, “I got me a new one,” the barbers would stop to watch and applaud. He was actually pretty good. Tony once told him, “You’re a regular Houdini. Maybe you really Italian, eh?” I remember him laughing that once, it was almost like he was crying. Odd way of laughing it was.

That one day, the one in my mind, Nicholas squirmed and squealed as he climbed into the barber’s chair onto the booster seat they used for little guys. He was excited and scared the way five year olds are when getting a hair cut. But he was a big boy now, and quick to remind you. He was at day camp and he wanted a crew cut like one of his counselors. And astronauts; he wanted to be an astronaut then. The buzz cuts made boys look like little soldiers in basic. On those hot days they liked the breeze running through their sweaty scalps. Who wouldn’t?

I just remembered something. After Gerry lost the place it was sold to a guy who wore gold chains and changed the name to “The Village Crimpers.” By then, Nicholas would have had a ponytail and stopped seeing barbers altogether though for the life of me that all seemed to happen overnight.

On that day, it was summer remember, they has a big fan in the corner blowing hair all over the floor. Everyone was in a tee shirt. Even the barber’s tunics were short sleeved, except Louie’s. In the middle of cutting, they’d wipe the sweat off their foreheads and tell Tony it was time to fix the air conditioner. Tony grunted something about catching pneumonia.

In the chair, squirming, Louie used that massager to get Nicholas shaking and giggling — it calmed him down. Then he asked, “How you like I should teach Daddy dad to cut your hair, hmm?”

I thought it was a joke, but Nicholas looked at me, his eyes popping out of his head, nodding like there was no tomorrow. “Yes, Daddy, please, please, please. You do it!” Louie threw his hands in the air, the right one shaking with that massager, “What now, I’m chopped liver? Well, Mister…it’s time for barber school.”

“His mother would murder me if I did a bad job.”

But Louie insisted. “One setting on the clipper. Simple. Better you should save college money for this one. A father must know how to cut his son’s hair.”

It wasn’t so hard. I played around with leaving it a little longer on the top, so Nicholas could have a part. Cath liked that. Louie made some pointers, had me change the setting, and nodded his head in encouragement. Nicholas was beside himself giggling the whole while, telling me to ‘go for it.’ “All of it?!?” I asked. “Don’t be silly Dad. Just most.”

Louie handed me the brush to wipe away the stray hairs, and like him, I tickled my son’s face to still more laughs now joined by Tony and the other guys. “You got a job if you want it,” said Tony. “I was going to get rid of Gerry anyway.” When I finished they all clapped. I give Nicholas some change so he could ride the mechanical horse outside and into the chair I went.

“Mr. Louie, are you going to show me magic tricks as well?”

He laughed in that funny way. It was the second time I heard him laugh like that. Then he took a coin out of his pocket and made it disappear. He showed me how but made me swear to keep it a secret. You won’t get it from me, so don’t bother asking.

I was looking into the mirror, watching myself practice – it was a half dollar, a Ben Franklin — how do I remember that? – when I saw Louie stretch across the counter in front of the mirror. His bare arm was out of his sleeve reaching for a comb something.

There, in the reflection I saw the markings – I didn’t know what they were, but I think I really did but didn’t want to know. I translated them backwards from the reflection. 23141.

Mr. Louie looked at the mirror and saw me staring, mouthing the numbers. He went back to snipping away. I usually didn’t say much in when I got a haircut anyway, platitudes about this or that maybe, but that day I couldn’t say anything.

He pulled the chair back, wrapped hot towels on my face, and went to shaving. I laid stock still: 23141 was all I could think about.

When Louie finished, he slapped bay rum on my face, and turned the chair to face him. “You know I’ve always been a barber. Before, in the camp they need barbers. I’m alive because I could cut hair.“

I couldn’t say anything. What was I going to say anyway?

“I cut hair. All hair. Little children even. I cut hair of my own little boy. My boy, you understand? He giggled, just like your boy. He giggled. It was a good thing I pray. I hope. Very good. Better you should enjoy giggles with your boy, not me.”

The next time we went in, maybe it was a couple of weeks, he’d gone. They said he moved upstate, to be near some friends. Tony kept it going for a few years, not long, before selling it to Gerry. I cut Nicholas’s hair for a while, not long either. When we went back, maybe in the fall, I don’t know if he realized that Louie had gone. Angelo was cutting the kids’ hair now; he even got himself one of those vibrating massagers.

I was thinking maybe I’m not so old to travel; see my boy, cut some hair. I’ll give Travis a shave, too. He’ll like that. Giggles can’t replace tears, you know, but maybe lessen their sting. And I haven’t forgotten how to make a half dollar disappear!1