The barber shop

Most of us are creatures of habit. We sit in the same row in worship services, eat the same breakfast cereal, and enjoy long-term relationships with our physician and our barber or hair stylist. William James noted this, with a nod to Aristotle, when he wrote, “All our life, so far as it has definite form, is but a mass of habits—practical, emotional, and intellectual … bearing us irresistibly toward our destiny.”¹

I have used the same barber shop for almost half a century (Figure 1). It was a two-man setup, just Aubrey and George. The former cut my hair and that of our profoundly retarded son for over 25 years. Aubrey was a native of the South and enjoyed telling stories of some “good ol’ boys” he had known. He was very kind to our son, who was nonverbal (except for loud piercing sounds) and tended to thrash about. Despite this, Aubrey always seemed glad to see him, like a physician should when seeing a worked-in colleague’s octogenarian patient in a wheelchair, somewhat cognitively impaired, who has taken up most of the allotted 15-minute office visit just struggling to get into a gown to be examined.

Figure 1. My barber shop.

Aubrey knew I was a team physician for the Atlanta Braves. One day he told me he had purchased an autographed baseball at a yard sale, which he wanted me to have. It was still in the original Spalding box and upon opening the latter I saw a beautiful signature of Hall of Famer Stan Musial. I told Aubrey it was valuable and offered to pay him what I knew it was worth, but he refused, saying he had only paid $4 for it. At a follow-up visit, I returned the favor by giving him a ball signed by several star Braves players.

One day I returned for a haircut, only to see a stocky, peroxide blond, middle-aged lady behind Aubrey’s chair. “Where is he?” I asked. “Oh, we retired him,” was the reply. When I asked why, she said, “He is 92, after all.” She then gave me her card informing me that she was an “all-American” barber.

The next month I returned. The all-American barber was gone, and Aubrey was back. He lasted another year, and then George took over the shop. A native Greek, born in 1940, George was very deaf. One had to shout a request to him, or write it out and show him, or sometimes use hand gestures.

The price of haircuts stayed $10. George was great about trimming the hair in my nose and ears, which is important, as my older brother (by 5 years) continues to check me over when we get together. As a youth, he taught me to tie a Windsor knot, to angle punts into the coffin corner during football practice, and to drive a jeep on our farm. Now, he inspects me, probably like Patton did to his World War II 3rd Army troops. When last with Bill he approved the hair situation, but told me my glasses were dirty and removed them so he could clean them for me.

Our daughter, Kelly, was once dining with friends at the Italian restaurant near my barber shop. The area has a number of lingerie and massage businesses. A friend of Kelly’s pointed to the barber shop and said it was probably a front for another seedy business. Kelly assured her it was not, as her father, a bit of a square, had been going there for haircuts for decades.

The other Saturday morning I drove to the barber shop to get my monthly hair trim, only to find it boarded up. There wasn’t a sign on the door explaining why. I didn’t know George’s last name so was unable to contact him or his family.

I sadly tried a new place in the end of a shopping center. There were three barbers, a television set, and the usual out-of-date magazines. My new barber was a woman with a foreign accent. I didn’t ask her where she grew up, as I once asked an older surgeon with a similar accent and he responded, “I haven’t yet.”

The haircut was $25, not including the tip. The equipment seemed newer than what I was used to. She even had a hand-held massager to vibrate over my neck and shoulders. She did trim the ear hair but not the nasal hair. Unlike George, she didn’t tell me I looked good upon finishing, even if he had cut it too short on one side, making it difficult to do my comb-over.

I suspect that one day a patient of mine will stop by my office and see my name removed from the list of doctors. I hope he or she will remember me fondly, as I do Aubrey and George, and that he will adjust to the new doctor, eventually appreciating the newer, fancier equipment and maybe even the electronic medical record (looking mainly at the doctor’s back as he swivels to and fro entering data).

I’m sorry I never took the time to learn George’s last name and address and that I didn’t give him a note telling him (and Aubrey) how much I appreciated their good care through the years.