Barbers Care: An Anthology of the Anecdotal

I haven't mastered the anecdotal. I'm prolix, which can make me tiresome. I really sympathize with people who struggle to stick with me as I wade through a lengthy preamble and provide just the right amount of context for why I need to find a new barber (again). I don't mean for it to be complicated, but the more banal the issue, the more scrupulous I am capable of being.

I understand that some people care. They care a whole lot. They care so much that there are four different scissors, three different electric clippers with sixteen different attachments, two different straight razors, and an entire drawer full of combs, brushes, rollers, straighteners, and other nuanced hair treatment tools to boggle and bewilder the imagination. I get it. Some people care a lot.

You know who cares a lot? The barber. The barber cares so much, it's their vocation. Their livelihood. It's what gets them up in the morning and pays for their groceries. They really care about how you want your hair done. They have to care, because if they didn't care, they wouldn't be good for the people who care about how their hair looks.

I admire that. People should care. But when you sit down in that barber chair, and they throw that sheet over you and wrap that paper around your neck (a little too threateningly, sometimes), and when they ask you, "So, what are we doing for you today," you can't tell this person:

"Whatever. I don't really care."

You can't do it. They don't know what to do if you say that. I get it. I mean, what does that even mean? "What does he mean he doesn't care?! Doesn't he want his hair cut? That's why he's here, isn't he? He sat in the chair. He must know this is a barber shop."

And, in the abstract, I do care—at least as much as it takes me to come to the barber shop in the first place. But the problem is, that's all I care. I don't care any more than that. I sit there, in the chair, aware of all the sharp implements of torture laid out on the little counter in front of them, and contemplate silently at what point I would be bothered by what they decide to do next. Stab me in the neck? Yes. I would care, if they did that. But—if they shaved my head and face bald as a hairless cat? I'm not sure. Would I care if they just gave me a bald cap, like the old Catholic monks of the middle ages? I don't know...

I see their eye twitch. They need some guidance. You can't just sit in a barber chair and give them a blank check to do whatever they want. Not because they can't do it, but because they care—they know that look in the mirror when someone looks at their newly cut hair and is masking disappointment. They know! You can't hide disappointment. And they care, so when they see it, it crushes them. So when you tell them, "I don't care," they know they're in for possibly seeing that face in the mirror when it's all said and cut. They don't want to see that disappointment, because it means you'll tell everyone about the bad cut you got—and who gave it to you—and they know you'll leave out that crucial little detail about how you did not care, and then really cared a lot when you saw what they did to you. They don't want that because they work off tips and return customers—and because they care.

It doesn't work if you don't care. You can't say that. You have to tell them something. You have to tell them,

"A gentleman's cut," and that's enough. It doesn't matter at all that a gentleman's cut could mean just about anything to anybody. But it gives them something to work with. Something to aim for. Even their own subjective attitude about what a gentleman is. Maybe they think of their father. Or their brother. Or their parole officer. They think of a gentleman, and they think, "Thank God he told me. What a gentleman. At least he didn't tell me he doesn't care."

And then he cuts. He cuts and buzzes and shaved and snips and snaps and, above everything, he talks.

He talks because he has to. Because he cares. And that means he wants you to be comfortable. And what psychopath would be more comfortable sitting in a chair saying nothing for half an hour (or more, depending on how deeply they care), than having a nice, quaint, inoffensive chat about all things mundane as your coiffe is chopped? Nobody, that's who. So they talk—and I can just imagine them sitting at home, with a notepad, jotting down little ideas for things to talk about with their customers that are the perfect subjects for barber chair talk. It can't be anything so interesting that it risks animating the client's head in exuberance as they wax philosophy as the shears are flying. That's how some people lose their eyes. It also can't be anything so dull that the client falls asleep in the chair; a good way to trim nose hair, a bad way to straighten up your neckline. I bet he gets real excited when he gets an idea for a perfect small-talk subject, like some car trouble he had recently. The latest football score. If it'll be a hard winter (or not!) Maybe, if he wants to try out some new material, he can improvise a little conversation about prices, ("Boy, have you seen these prices?")

And because he talks, I have to talk. Which is not a bad thing. It's good to talk. But he gets a lot more practice with this material than I do. It's like sitting down with a chess grandmaster who has already thought the game out twenty moves ahead. If he talks about his favorite vacation spot, no matter what I say, he's going to have just the right answer, because as a barber, he's heard it all. Every fishing spot, every hiking trail, every roadside attraction. Heck, even Europe. "You wanna talk about Europe? I got a cousin who's been to Europe!" Oh, God, who can compete with that?

So you let them win their game of rhetoric. After all, they're the ones holding all the razors. And when they show you your haircut—you can't help but be impressed. You're so easy to impress, after all—because you didn't really care. They cared a lot. Forty minutes worth. They even did the thing with the hot shaving cream on the back of your neck and a razor. That's how much they cared. It looks good, you give them that. And to acknowledge that you understand how much they care, you give them a little extra. Not a lot, because who has that kind of money—but something. Something that says you care, even if you really didn't.

But this isn't your barber. This isn't where you normally go. You're a fish out of water, here. Will your usual barber know? Will they be able to tell? It wasn't your fault they were closed today and you needed a haircut—and it needed to be today because you cared so little you let it go until you absolutely could not wait any longer. It had to be today, whether your usual barber is closed or not. But will it seem odd that you wait seven months for a haircut? They'll know you went somewhere else in-between. You can't face that kind of scrutiny. That level of cold regard. They might cut it uneven, just to show that they could tell—and that, yes—they cared. They cared you went somewhere else. They couldn't ask why, because that transgresses the 'small talk' code of barber shops. But they noticed.

So, you have to find a new barber. And when people ask you 'why,' you can't tell them at length, because nobody cares. You just have to tell them:

"It's complicated."