By Jim Hunt for the News and Journal
Throughout your life, there aren’t many people you see as regularly as your barber. I still remember my very first trip to the barbershop with my dad. I was about five, it was a Saturday morning, and my mother told me to put on a clean shirt because I was going to get a haircut. We headed downtown and walked into the shop with the twirling red-and-white barber pole out front. Inside, five or six men and a couple of kids were waiting their turn. Some wore neatly pressed suits; others looked like they’d just come from work, in flannel shirts and jeans. The barber nodded to my dad and said it wouldn’t be too long.
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The place was impressive to a five-year-old, two big chairs that went up and down as the barbers pumped the foot pedals, big mirrors lining the wall, and clippers and scissors all laid out neatly on the shelf. There was a tall glass jar filled with blue liquid holding combs, and a big leather strap hanging from the chair. My dad joked that they used it on boys who cried. That didn’t do much for my confidence.
The barber’s name was Felix. He was a kind man with a starched white coat that made him look like a doctor. After a while, he looked over and said, “It’s your turn, young man.” He pulled out a padded board that fit across the armrests and helped me climb up. My dad said, “Cut it short,” and Felix nodded. “You mean a short GI?” he asked. A few minutes later, my hair was in a pile on the floor, and I was back on solid ground.
My dad was next. As Felix started his haircut, he pulled out his straight razor and began running it up and down the leather strap. The sound of that razor gave me chills, but my dad just smiled at me in the mirror.
After years of “short GIs,” Felix hung up his white coat, and his brother Frank took over. Frank kept me looking presentable until I left for college. I don’t remember much about haircuts during those years, long hair was in style, and I went right along with it.
When I came back to Clarksburg, I started going to Bo Oliverio at The Gentleman’s Choice. Bo was a few years ahead of me in high school, and before long he became my regular barber, and later, my unofficial political advisor once I got into public service. I told him not to retire until I was bald, but sure enough, he eventually did, and I still had hair to cut.
When Bo retired, my wife suggested I try her hairdresser, Melissa. I told her a man’s barber isn’t just someone who cuts hair. He’s part newsman, part counselor, and part gossip columnist, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to share that with her stylist. She laughed and told me to give it a try. Turns out Melissa’s terrific. She does a great job, and she even convinced me to let her “wax” my eyebrows. I describe it as a mix of medieval torture and beauty treatment, but she assures me it’s worth it.
I’ve been lucky over the years, only a handful of people have ever been trusted around my head with scissors and a straight razor. Every one of them has been part of the rhythm of my life. Those minutes in the chair have always been more than just a haircut, they’ve been a chance to talk, listen, and reflect. And for the record, I tell Melissa that any marital complaints I make are strictly between her and me.