When Haircuts Were a Community Event.

When I was a kid, I got my hair cut at Carl’s Barbershop, down on Snelling Ave. In those days, there were only two places for a guy to his hair cut: mom’s kitchen table or Carl’s barber chair.

Carl Schulz was a third generation barber. His grandpa opened the shop in 1925 and cut hair through the Great Depression and the War to End All Wars. Carl’s dad took over in 1938 and cut through the Good War and on into the Baby Boom. Then Carl stepped up in 1968 and cut his way through Vietnam and Woodstock, Disco and the personal computer, and all the way to the digital frontier.

Carl only had one rule: no reading in his shop. No magazines, no newspapers, no books.

hen I pulled out a slug of Bazooka Gum, I knew I had better pop it in my mouth quick and stuff the comic strip wrapper back in my pocket. If Carl caught you reading a Bazooka Joe gum wrapper, he’d hold out his hand and everyone would look right at you until you handed it over.

I thought Carl was the smartest guy in town. I’d sit in those big red chairs, waiting my turn, and just listen. He’d talk Wall Street with the bankers, books with the teachers, taxes with the accountants, girls with the guys and kids with the dads.

Sometimes, a bunch of us would try and stump Carl. We’d meet at the library, a crowd of 10-year-old knuckleheads, hunched over a Britannica that was three feet square when opened flat. We learned a lot of new stuff trying to stump Carl.

Carl had a stroke a few years back and closed shop for six weeks.

I finally broke down and made a reservation at a salon. People sat in their own little worlds, reading hair magazines and swiping who knows what on their phones.

Half a dozen people got their hair cut at the same time, talking to stylists they didn’t really know, sitting next to strangers they didn’t know at all. Hair dryers blaring, rock music piped in from the ceiling.

I went home and let my hair grow down to my shoulders.

When Carl came back, we threw a heck of a party right there in the barbershop. You never saw so many shaggy-looking men. Carl cried. I did, too. Heck, I’m almost crying now.

Getting your hair cut used to be a community event. No one read at Carl’s because it was rude to read in front of your neighbors. Get to know somebody, for goodness’ sakes.

​That’s what it was about. Talking and listening, laughing and thinking, waiting your turn, getting your hair cut with a few squirts from a water bottle, letting it air dry, then sticking around after you were done because you really couldn’t think of anywhere else you’d rather be.

Comments

Media Jean: Your dad cries a lot, doesn’t he?

Chip: He’s kinda soft-hearted that way.

Media Jean: I bet I walked by that little barbershop a million times, but I never thought twice about it. It looks so… old.

Chip: Carl is great. He’s like Yoda. He knows everything.

Media Jean: Would he cut a girl’s hair?

Chip: Hair is hair, I guess.

Media Jean: Maybe I’ll go to Carl’s Barbershop next time. I’m curious. I’ll bring my dad.

Chip: Just so you know, you can’t use your iPhone in Carl’s.

Media Jean: What?! I’ll do it on the sly, he’ll never know.

Chip: Carl’s way ahead of you. He has a signal blocker in his shop. Cell phones don’t work.

Media Jean: Ha ha! Sounds like something I would do! I like him already!

Chip: He has an old soda machine. You can get a bottle of ice cold root beer for a quarter.

Media Jean: Heck, why wait?! Let’s get a haircut right now!

Chip: I’ll meet you there!

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