Barber Shop.

Sometimes getting a haircut is more than getting a haircut. Just ask my buddy Jim.

My Dad is bald. Not like, hip bald. He’s had the same cul-de-sac of hair around the bottom half of his head for as long as I’ve been alive. My uncles are the same, and as the years have progressed, my brothers began to show the same signs of wear around their own heads. I always knew baldness was inevitable for me, and I think my brothers did as well. As such, our family never put a lot of stock into how stylish our hair was. My mom ran us all through her kitchen barber shop as quickly as possible growing up. The hairstyle options were as follows: buzz cut, not a buzz cut, or leave the bangs. We never really needed anything else to pick from.

In high school I went through my heavy metal music phase with its corresponding style. I had a dumb belt with dumb studs in it, dumb black t-shirts for dumb bands I never listened to, and the inevitable shoulder length locks of dumb hair. At that point in my life, appearing as though I didn’t care about my image required considerably more effort than actually not caring. Or at least more angst about it being just right in a manner that carefully conveyed a curated image of someone not carefully curated. Every time my mom dragged me to a place with “clips” in the name, it was a ritual to look with disgust at the end at how short my hair now was. The world just didn’t understand us.

In college your ability to do away with such silly pretense is vastly easier. It’s a time of wondering about the person you are to become while being less preoccupied about the person you currently are. Also, you have to start paying for shit. Using my newfound math skills thanks to the engineering boot camp I had begun, I quickly realized that a $30 down payment in a pair of hair clippers could net a return on investment in no greater than 2 uses. The style options of mother were reduced to simply: buzz cut. But that would suffice.

●●●

My first real job was a sales gig that sent me all over the country for 6 months to get trained up on product lines. The company headquarters was based in Milwaukee, and I became a Marriott Gold Rewards Member as I lived out of the same hotel for 6 weeks in the heart of downtown. I was becoming a man. I had my big boy job. My big boy company credit card. And my big boy sense of entitlement despite no credentials or a single fucking clue what my job was. I had a long ass title: Systems Associate Sales Engineer HVAC. But my knowledge of what a Systems Associate Sales Engineer HVAC actually did was (and still is) beyond me. But no matter, that’s what all this training was meant to sort out. All I needed was a big boy haircut.

Our hotel was connected to a shopping center via a labyrinth of sky bridges and thick doors that looked like they weren’t supposed to open. It was a rite of passage – typically occurring around week 3 of residency– to decide to try to open them. At that point we didn’t care what happened to us on the other side, this was our home. We had as much a right to that space as any other lease-paying tenant, perhaps more so. Turns out, it was just more sky bridges and thick doors. But if you continued the quest you ‘d eventually reach a Walgreen’s, Wisconsin themed t-shirt stand, and a barber shop.

I had to go to a wedding as soon as I got back from this latest stint in the City of Beer and Cheese, and the remains of my college era locks weren’t exactly photo ready. (I ended up not being in any of the wedding photos since my status as an usher apparently didn’t necessitate any, that’s a different story entirely, but Todd and I haven’t really hung out since). I also had this romantic notion of trying out a trial version of a barber-barbee relationship as a visiting team before committing on my home court. So, prior to hitting the bars that night, I walked down the skybridge, through the heavy doors, and into the waiting room of the nondescript barber shop I had passed so many times before.

●●●

I knew nothing about this barber shop except that it was a barber shop. I entered without an appointment, and the only person ahead of me was seated in a tall hydraulic chair. A skinny, white-coated Italian was hard at work on this man’s scalp. The man in chair was anything but skinny. He looked more like a character out of a Joe Pesci movie, the kind that complained about the cannoli and distributed concrete shoes at the instruction of his superiors. I was told to take a seat and that I would be helped shortly. I obeyed. The skinny, white-coated barber was very polite about it, but I knew it would be in my best interest for the man in front of me not to feel like he was being rushed along.

The room wasn’t big or particularly interesting. It was in a fairly remote and forgotten about annex of the commercial shopping center– the kind of place where leases are cheap and you would never venture to unless you knew the destination at hand. Or were living for 6 weeks in the adjoining Marriott while learning to be a Systems Associate Sales Engineer HVAC. Despite the lack of décor in the sterile environment, I tried to soak in the setting. The barber said little. The man getting the haircut said a lot. Loud stories and exclamations were met with slight nods and mumbles of assent.

Fanned out in front of me was a collection of Playboys. A brief inspection of the font and appearance of the long-haired models adorning the front placed these magazines circa 1960. Despite what you may have guessed, I didn’t spend my time waiting for a haircut looking at pornography from the formative years of my parents. I wasn’t sure what exactly was to be found in those pages, but I had a strong suspicion it would not have the intended effect.  I don’t think nudie mags are meant to age well. But if I’m wrong about that, I kind of doubt it would put me in the mood for a haircut.

Rocco or Mickey or Bugsy or whatever his friends called him was wrapping up. Pleasantries were exchanged, but not money. Curious.  

The barber called me over. It was my time.

“Have I had the pleasure?”

●●●

I got him caught up. He hadn’t had the pleasure.

He introduced himself:

Tony.

Of course his name was Tony.

The dude was awesome. Up to this point the only people that had cut my hair other than my mother were other mothers that wanted some supplemental income and found the flexible hours and competitive pay at the Walmart Great Clips suitable. Tony took pride in what he did. He worked my head like a canvas, periodically breaking into verses of various stanzas in Italian as if I were unwittingly cast as an extra in a musical.

As our conversation warmed up, Tony started to confirm my suspicions. He stayed vague on the details out of necessity. Maybe it was my out-of-towner status, my lack of an Italian accent, or just the overall cowardly impression that I exude– but he clearly deemed I wasn’t a threat to his safety.

“Some of these guys, they just come in here and expect me to cut their hair for nothing… 

(Pause, voice a little softer)

…They’ve done some bad things.”

I didn’t know how much to tip him, but clearly, he had worked for less.

I was hooked. Back home, I needed a Tony.

●●●

Not knowing where the Omaha mafia frequented, I googled “barber shop” as soon as Tony’s handiwork had started to expire. Nothing was particularly close to where I lived, but all of the reviews for “Dundee Barber” were impeccable. There was no website. It was one of those situations where you had to click around– eventually landing on an odds and ends rating site that reminds you to double check that your computer’s anti-virus protection is up to date.

“Great haircut!”

“Jim is the nicest guy! I love getting my haircut there.”

“Got to love the clown collection!”

Umm…

I had all the information I needed. I dialed Jim up. Within two rings there was an immediate answer on the other side:

“Barber shop.”

Not “this is the Dundee Barber Shop, Jim speaking, how may I help you?” It was simply a statement of fact. We all knew what commodities we were dealing in, no superfluous greeting needed.

I made my appointment and was ready for that relational void in my life where the barber sized hole in my heart was to be filled. Later that week, I met my man: Jim Schnirl.

●●●

If Tony’s shop was as sterile as an operating room (minus the Playboys– I think– I haven’t been in an operating room since my 3 year old hernia surgery), Jim's shop was an amusement park. As the years went on, I never minded waiting for him to finish up with the person in front of me since there was always some new detail I didn’t quite notice the first time. It was art.  

Jim was the most recent in a lineage of Dundee Barbers. Not a hereditary one– but a pedigree passed on to the chosen heir from one artisan to another only after he had proven himself worthy. Or expressed an interest in taking over the lease around the time the current Dundee Barber was ready to quit. When Jim was bestowed, he made the decision to leave everything exactly the same as the day he was handed the keys. Jim wasn't really a big idea man. He just wanted to cut hair and loved doing it. As such, the shop was a time capsule.

There were:

·        Displays for combs that you could buy (I bet Jim would have still sold you one if you really wanted)

·        Posters of hair styles that were waiting for their return to prominence once a hipster rediscovered them

·        A mirror that resembled a Time magazine cover with a "Man of the Year" headline. (Jim sometimes got a kick out of having you look at your fresh cut in it and boosting your confidence)

·        An awkwardly wall-mounted TV always turned to the Weather Channel

·        And, yes, a clown collection

●●●

Clown figurines. Clown posters. Clown memorabilia. All carefully arranged and displayed in a corner shelf by the previous owner. Jim never once said anything about it. Nothing ironic. Nothing funny. Nothing that even acknowledged that the collection was there. To Jim, the assortment of circus jesters was just something that he had no reason to change. And I'm so glad he didn't.

●●●

When the chime on the door alerted Jim to my first arrival, he knew he had never met me. But that didn't matter. Jim was thrilled that I was there. As I described how I wanted my hair, he took out a note card and wrote down everything I dictated. I never gave him my last name, but Jim filed the card away to make sure he was ready the next time "Chris" came in. Because why wouldn't there be a next time?

I'm pretty sure he never asked me how I found him– marketing metrics weren't his thing.  But I told him anyways.

"I decided I wanted a barber, and your name was the first one to come up when I googled ‘barbers in Omaha’."

"Oh, that's great. I've had a lot of people tell me that, but I've never checked. I don’t have a computer."

In fact, Jim didn't seem to have much of a need for any technology at all. He always rode a bike, used a wall telephone to take appointments (stopping mid-sentence anytime it rang), and his vanity mirror was a collection of business cards throughout the years– no search engine required. If Jim needed to remember something, he just remembered it. And when he didn't, you didn’t mind. He was just as excited about the story this most recent time as he was the previous.

“Oh man. That's just great. That's great."

Getting my haircut became the highlight of my month. I would make an event of it. I'd drive the 20+ minutes from my office to coincide with lunch at Amsterdam Falafel and Kabob and the occasional dessert from the cupcake stand next door. (This was before the owner of said cupcake stand ran for the U.S. Senate, got in trouble for sexual harassment of a staffer, and was handed the most lopsided defeat in the history of the Nebraska electorate.) I’d ring Jim’s door chime with enough time to get unhurried and undivided attention from my personal cheerleader. If he was with another customer, he’d greet you by name and promise to get to you shortly. If he was reading the paper, he’d jump up out of his seat and tell you to come on over. If he was mopping up a giant mess and carrying a 5 gallon bucket, he had a story to tell.

Others had the same routine. Local meteorologist celebrity Bill Randby could be found in a stool patiently reading a magazine while Jim and I wrapped. (If you don't know who Omaha weatherman Bill Randby is, you're not my mother-in-law).

Gradually, I learned bits of Jim's story. He grew up at Boy's Town and could vividly recall the day the 1938 Academy Award for Best Actor was donated to the Boy's Town Museum. The recipient was the leading man in the film 'Boys Town,’ so it was a natural enough fit.  Jim learned to cut hair in the Navy, which would explain both his style of glasses and the faded purpleish tattoo aged on the webbing of his hand between his thumb and index finger. I think he had kids. I think he had an ex-wife. He waited too long to start saving for retirement but wasn't in much of a rush to get there anyways. Jim was never in much of a rush for anything.

Jim learned bits of my story as well. He was curious where my work travels had taken me and was excited to hear that l had a girlfriend. He always asked how my family was doing, even though I was never exactly sure who he was referring to. When I got engaged, he was thrilled. He seemed to anticipate March 19^th, 2016 as much as l did. When that day drew near, Jim and I had unfinished business. The door chime signaled. Jim skipped his customary greeting.

"Is this THE haircut?”

It was.

●●●

One day my haircut was due, but no one answered the phone. No "Barber Shop.” on the other end of the line. This had happened before. Jim didn't announce his absences. If he wasn't there, he wasn't there. No voicemail. No recorded message stating his return date. Just a series of rings until the line clicked itself dead.  I called back later and called back later. Eventually I had to get my hair cut by someone who would pick up the phone.  

On no night in particular, my wife and I had dinner in the Dundee neighborhood. A man on a bicycle passed, then his front and rear wheel brakes squeaked to a halt.

"Hey Chris!"

 It was Jim. I was relieved and confused. He was in his standard chipper mood, until I asked him if he was still cutting hair. His face sank to a bit of a scowl, an unnatural position for him.

"Not right now."

●●●

To tell of how and why this came to be, it's helpful to back up. The Dundee Barber was a sublease of another cultural icon of Omaha’s Dundee neighborhood: The Dundee Theater. The theater was its own stuck-in-time relic that was adored by college students watching midnight showings of The Rocky Horror Picture Show. It was grimy, dilapidated, and amazing. However, bills need to be paid and some minimal standards of maintenance are required by law– neither of which came easy to the current owners. The “Closed for Repairs” sign in the window slowly morphed into simply “Closed” as the extent of the disrepair was unearthed with each subsequent subcontractor. The theater was shuttered for several years until philanthropist Susie Buffett agreed to buy the property and donate it to the hipster artsy fartsy group 'Film Streams." It was a great fit.

As a physical tenant of the same structure, The Dundee Barber was part of the sale. For many consecutive haircuts, Jim told me how well he thought everything was going to turn out. He was reassured that a barber shop was just the kind of tenant that Susie would want to have, and why wouldn't he be? Have you met Jim? He’s fucking great. But as the time came closer, it became clear that a barber shop may be a good fit, but not the Dundee Barber himself.

The man that had not altered a single clown figurine in his entire run as the proprietor of his business was being asked to change. Jim didn't elaborate much on the street corner that day other than, "they just wanted to do all sorts of things that I couldn’t do, so I got out of there."

But it wasn't hard to figure out what those things were, because now I could just look at an actual website.  

“We've made many improvements, added two additional chairs for more appointments, and still retained the beloved Barber Jim!"

Except the only line in that heading that didn't incinerate the essence of what made the experience special wasn't true. Jim was gone. I asked Jim if he was cutting hair somewhere else and he said he was working on it. It's not as though he had his own Instagram page, so I never found out if his “working on it” paid off.

I’ve tried to look for him on more than one occasion. The closest I’ve come is a State of Nebraska “Active Barbers Report.” Jim has kept his barber’s license up to date. He first received it on January 9^th, 1984. I just can’t figure out if he still uses it.  

 The new Dundee Barber isn't hard to get information about though. You can schedule online, pick your barber, and probably do all sorts of other new-fangled fancy things. Except get a haircut from Jim. Which was all I really wanted.

I drove by the new Dundee Barber building only once with the intention of going in– just to see if I could stomach it. The "must have an appointment” sign on the door was gone. In many ways it was much more inviting. Through the newly installed display windows you could soak in a classic barber shop vibe, exactly the way all the hipsters and marketing executives would envision it. Just not the way it should be.

The “Dundee Barber” window paint was scraped off, even though it would seem to jive with the new aesthetic. I guess it’s not cool if it’s not ironic. The interior of the renovated facility was adorned with a suit of armor and heads of dead animals. The simple “Barber Shop” sign on the building side was removed. A newly hung shingle stated: "Dundee Barber Est. 1928."

But where the new owners intended to place a sign, I saw a grave marker. The date of birth was there but the date of death was not. But make no mistake, the spirit and soul had since passed.

●●●

I had a backup barber named Rick that I went to on the days that Jim was on vacation or just didn't answer the phone when I called. I felt guilty every time I used him, but I knew it was only temporary. Until it wasn't. Rick was a good guy in a lot of ways. There was nothing about him I disliked. But there was nothing about him I particularly liked either. Rick could give the fastest haircuts I had ever been a part of. An appointment with Jim was a meandering 25 to 30 minutes, a journey of sorts, with plenty of pauses for laughs, stories, and life lessons.

Rick was efficiency in its purest form. In 15 minutes, he could have your sides buzzed, top trimmed, and neck straight edge shaved and out the door with a $5 tip.

Rick never learned my name. Rick never learned anything about me. Rick wasn't really into small talk. And, typically,  neither am I.

Rick was just like me.

●●●

Over time, it became clear I was going bald. I grew tired of seeing my hairline thin out and how Rick compensated for it by giving me a pseudo comb over without being granted permission. For years I dreaded the day that I would lose my hair because I wouldn't have a pretense for a monthly chat with Jim.

But now, I was ready. If Rick and I didn't meet up anymore, it wouldn't be much different than when we did.

●●●

I suppose in a good story you are left space to draw your own conclusions. There could be a lesson about the way capitalism leads to a crowding out of the little guy. A lesson about how relationships matter more than efficiency or profitability. A lesson about just how nice it is to meet people that are interested in you and interesting themselves.

I knew Jim wasn't my friend. He was my Barber. But because of Jim, what a Barber was to me became more than just someone that cut my hair. Rick was someone that just cut my hair. But not Jim. Jim inhabited that kind of realm when people talk about THEIR doctor or THEIR mechanic. Because of the person, the title transcends the profession. It’s a term of endearment, of ownership, of... well friendship. We often minimize a person to just their title, but occasionally we meet someone that elevates their title to something beyond just an occupation. The way we remember certain teachers or certain pastors.

Or by contrast the way we forget all the others.

But I remembered Jim.

And now I cut my own hair.

Baseball.

Rooting for the Home Team: Episode I