Country Barber

The Country Barber

A Memory Journey by John Busbee

“Growth of human hair is the absolute blessing for a barber.” ― Munia Khan, poet

Rusty was always Rusty. Growing up in our 3-generation family farm home, in our little corner of the world, many people in the area were known just by their nickname. If anyone invoked the name Rusty, everyone knew who we were talking about. It was the earliest form of micro-social networking notoriety: if in a small region you were known by a single name, you were famous. Folks in Rusty’s profession. Or, Harold, the farmer just west of us who ran my grandparents’ farm. He wasn’t as famous as Rusty, but everyone in the area knew Harold. Harold, farmer. Rusty, barber. You need a pop culture example? When I say “Floyd,” don’t you think of the barber on “The Andy Griffith Show”? True, young folks don’t. Sigh.

His business storefront was a simple farm home front porch. With that traditional extended awning held up by four simple posts and a front door square in the middle of the east-facing porch, his business was located in a remodeled front room area of his home. There may have been a small, modest red-and-white striped barber pole affixed beside the entrance, but that detail is fuzzy in my mind. It wouldn’t have been necessary. Everyone knew where Rusty’s was, and he likely didn’t need new business burdening him with too much success. Modest. He had enough hairy heads walking through his door to keep his family’s modest lifestyle secure. He also, truth be told, liked knowing each head that came through his door.

That’s how I imagined Rusty saw his customers. As heads. Each one floating through his door in need of attention. Kind of like tuning in a television, getting the rabbit ears just right so the picture wasn’t fuzzy. He took fuzzy heads and brought ‘em into focus. I was a lad with a vivid imagination.

When Grandpa thought my little brother and I were looking a little too shaggy, it was time to visit Rusty’s. There may have been some prodding from Grandma to get her husband in gear, too.

The waiting room had a sanctuary-like solemnity to it. The menfolk waiting patiently for their turn in Rusty’s chair. It was a sacred vestibule, filled with pilgrims awaiting their audience with the master of tonsorial arts. A Rembrandt of razors and scissors, clipping and cologning.

The men who gathered at Rusty’s weren’t prone to loud and jovial chit-chat, like when they gathered around the feed store stove or restaurant table to jaw over coffee every morning. That kind of animated carrying on didn’t seem appropriate at the barber shop. There were certain places whenever a man entered, they would assume a more withdrawn demeanor. Church, doctor’s office, dentist, libraries (although, farmers seldom visited those literary pantheons). The barber shop was part of that list of subdued male behavior locales. Another rural anthropology study to be launched – “Repressed male behaviors in rural environments.”

To help divert their attention from any discomfort, Rusty would always have the most current issue of Wallace’s Farmer and Successful Farming awaiting his customers. He even had some 10-cent Action comic books for the boys like me. After several visits to Rusty’s, I noticed that the men’s magazines always had the current issues there, but the comic books remained the same, albeit more dog-eared than the last time I was there. I could almost repeat every caption in the featured story about Superman first meeting his despised nemesis, Brainiac. I didn’t mind, though, as any immersion into a comic book was good for a developing imagination.

The scent of this space was unique, too. It had its own aromatic signature, the kind that if you were to be dropped blindfolded into a room and sniffed this blend of scents, you would smile and say “Rusty’s.” Like an Iowa countryside, where the air was filled with “the smell of money” from the hog lots downwind of Rusty’s. Or, depending on the time of year, the rich, loamy scent of just-plowed farmland. Or, the dusty odor of harvesting corn, with its tinge of graininess. All of those exterior smells ceased at the doorway. You’d step into a subtly fragrant chamber of light talc, shaving cream stirred in a heavy ceramic mug, and Lucky Tiger. Those unique aromas mingling together were heady stuff. I would involuntarily take a deep breath of that atmosphere, hold it a moment, then slowly exhale. I had stepped into a special world, like visiting a different country. This was aroma therapy before that became a thing . . . at least, for men. There has never been a single country man, though, who would strike up a conversation with a fellow rustic, beginning with “Y’know, Chester, that new shaving cologne Rusty used had a masculine core with a light hint of springtime rain and new lilacs, don’t ya think?” Hearing that quip, Chester would have taken a long, hard stare and warily backed away, akin to backing away from a boar gone wild. The men of the farmlands were expected to be masculine, with a predetermined presence. What they thought deep within their souls, where their creative muses pranced about trying to let a small ray of aesthetic insight shine out, was mostly held in complete lockdown. I do believe that many a fine artist’s soul was forever squished inside the human shell that was the American farmer. The closest I witnessed to recognition of that aromatic place was when Grandpa, walking into Rusty’s, caught the scent of a new tonic the barber was using, an alluring fragrance that any man would welcome to be scented with. Grandpa’s left eyebrow arched a little. That was it. The acknowledgement of that moment.

After entering, we reverently took our places in the well-worn, heavy plastic armed chairs sharing two walls of this realm. Once a fella stepped through the gateway of guy’s good grooming, he was transformed while inside this cubical of country coiffure. Grandpa, my little brother and I were similarly transformed upon entering, and found unoccupied chairs. Grandpa gave a greeting grunt, Rusty a slight nod. Rusty had just finished cutting the hair of the current occupant of his barber’s throne, and was ready for the shave, an experience years down the road for me.

All boys at the barber shop considered themselves part of that brotherhood of menfolk. After all, they, too, were there for the ritualistic trimming of follicle growth, too – quietly awaiting their turn for the above-the-neck shearing. There were many wistful glances as these hairless chinned young’uns watched the men get their faces and sideburns shaved by Rusty. It was a mesmerizing procedure. Rusty had a stainless steel bin filled with white cotton cloth towels, dampened and heated, that he would layer on the head awaiting his straight razor’s wizardry. A short time of heated beard-softening moisture, during which time Rusty was feverishly whipping up a fresh batch of shaving cream in his mug with the his natural-haired shaving brush. I would later learn that these brush hairs were super soft and made from boar, horse or badger hair. I figured that Rusty had a boar-hair brush because most of his customers were farmers. Horse would have done it, too. Not many badgers in Henry County, Iowa.

After the initial frothing of the shaving cream, Rusty would set the mug down and pick up his straight razor. This was a well-used, well-cared-for key instrument of his trade. It sported a pearly handle, probably real ivory, that had aged into a creamy, slightly yellowed tone. The blade transfixed my gaze, though. That silvery steel glinted in the well-lit room, with an edge that looked absolutely lethal. It felt that just looking at the blade would cut me. Rusty deftly slapped the razor back and forth on his buttery smooth leather strop. As if he could make that wicked looking blade any sharper. He laid the razor on a towel on his equipment table.

The towel was quickly removed, tossed into the growing pile of used towels, and the lathering of the face began. He grabbed the shaving mug from the table. A soft whoosh-whoosh of quick twirls lathered the soap back into a thick, white froth. Rusty quickly dabbed the areas destined for baby-smooth completion with the creamy concoction. Quickly setting the mug down, he efficiently whisked the razor next to it, spun with the grace of a dancer, and began the ritualistic harvesting of lather-softened whiskers.

A moment’s pause, an assessment. His stubble-laden stoic sat motionless in the chair, statue-like. Breathing was controlled, gentle, a kind of rural Zen state. He didn’t want Rusty to miss his mark, and was not going to contribute to any errant strokes of the razor. Of course, such a tragedy was unthinkable under Rusty’s maestro-like mini-sweeps along the contours of each unique, masculine facial landscape. I was there once when Lloyd got a shave. Everyone knew Lloyd, a one-name local. His fame came from near-tragedy, however. He was corralling bulls when one caught him between backside and boards along the fence’s rough-hewn wood. The reconstruction on Lloyd’s right cheek was as good as could be expected, but that part of his face looked more like the rock-strewn backwoods that could never be farmed. Since his persistent skin still grew whiskers, it was rumored that Lloyd was one of Rusty’s greatest challenges as a razor artist. Everyone in Rusty’s that day was seemingly occupied with their reading, buried deep in whatever magazine they held. Closer inspection revealed that each was intensely peeking over the top of their magazines (or, comic book). We watched in rapt admiration as Rusty accepted and delivered on his greatest facial challenge. When finished, Lloyd looked great, giving approval with a quick hand rub across his jowl and a crooked smile. He smelled good, too, thanks to the Lucky Tiger.

Regulars completely trusted Rusty’s shaving skills, as if he were using something as unthreatening as a dull butter knife instead of one of the world’s sharpest blades. They knew that his experienced hand would glide across every square inch of their faces, shearing the persistent whiskers from their follicles, leaving baby’s-bottom-smooth skin transformed from the leathery, weather-worn skin that had walked through his door. With a speed that defied the treachery of that glinting edge, the task was done, stray scraps of shaving cream quickly wiped off, and a slight smile from Rusty as another masterpiece was completed.

Rusty’s post-shave, post-haircut ritual continued. He would brush the clippings from the apron he had draped over the customer’s upper body. He would untie the apron, loosening it enough so he could gently remove the disposable paper inner bib and toss it away. With a hint of flair in removing the apron, a subtle twist and twirl like a matador artfully avoiding the bull, Rusty lightly uncloaked the patron. Nary a stray clipped hair would besmirch the worn bibs or frayed blue denim shirt of his farmer customer. This conscientious gesture was in symbolic respect to the men who were Rusty’s primary clientele.

In big cities, such a performance would have been worthy of hearty applause, if not a standing ovation. At Rusty’s, the completion of one guest effortlessly segued into the beginning of the next. I seem to recall that Rusty kept hours befitting his client base. He was not open “banker’s hours,” but instead tended towards late afternoon into early evening, about 4:00-8:00 PM, specific days of the week. Never Sundays, plus at least one other weekday of being closed. With these hours, there was one quirk in the routine that had become an accepted pause in the steady flow of patrons to Rusty’s chair. Supper.

It was never specific, but it seemed that supper happened within 5 or 10 minutes of the same time each evening. Big city barbershops never dealt with this phenomenon, as they often had several barbers plying their trade in the same shop, so one could slip into the back room for a bite to eat without halting the revenue stream. Rusty’s was a one-horse operation.

When the magic portal to the rest of Rusty’s home, that barrier that separated work from home life, would crack open a bit, everyone knew it was suppertime. Rusty’s wife would catch his eye, then gently close the door. Rusty would complete the task at hand. If he was giving a shave, he would complete that task, finish business, then exit. If he was mid-haircut, he would complete that task, then leave the patron sitting in the barber chair to await his return for the shave. Men did not like getting caught ‘tween haircut and shave when Rusty’s wife called him to supper. The menfolk liked their routines to be uninterrupted, and would become a little fidgety when said routine was disrupted. Usually, a sympathetic fellow member of the Rusty tribe would fetch an issue of Wallace’s Farmer, giving the trapped patron something to while away the time.

Rusty was an efficient eater, and would return usually within 10 minutes. 15, tops. Then, as if the flow of business had been frozen in time, he picked up where he left off. I envisioned the humming of an efficient machine whirling away then, when suppertime came, it would halt. When Rusty returned, my fantasy continued as it heard the gearing up again of the machine into full production speed.

When it was my turn, I waited patiently for the encore elements of the “shave and a haircut, two-bits” routine. After this farmer stood up from the chair, he pulled out a snap-shut leather coin purse, pulled out the cost of the service, added a little, and handed it to Rusty. Rusty turned to place the remuneration into its proper place. The farmer then would gently rub his calloused hand across his revived face, often giving the faintest of smiles and a soft grunt of approval. All was well again; the missus would approve.

I would sometimes catch Rusty catching a covert glimpse in his mirror of these brief approval moments of his grooming artistry, as he was placing the modest payments into the till. It was all the affirmation he needed for his work.

I had grown enough that I could sit in Rusty’s massive barber chair without any accommodations. Not so with my little brother, Jeff. His stature was still small enough that, when it was his turn under Rusty’s electric razor, Rusty would place the padded plank across the barber chair’s arms, giving an elevated vantage for his diminutive customers. Jeff was easy-going, and never fussed about this “baby” treatment, as some other boys would call it.

Whether in the chair, or elevated by the board, the early years of visiting Rusty’s were always the same. A butch haircut. I believe that Rusty truly enjoyed the profit margin on giving butch haircuts. At least, the basic butch haircut. He’d whip out his electric razor, adjust the height of the blade, and quickly zip around the patron’s cranial dome. That experience let me know what a field of clover felt like when the mower came along to cut it down for baling. The only challenging part of this buzz-cut style was the all-important front cock’s comb. A proper butch hair cut needed a frontal wall of hair at the crown of the forehead that could be generously dabbed with Cru Butch Hair Wax to give it a proper stiffness. In fact, it was so stiff that short line of hair fencing the top of the head could probably pierce sheetrock. When finished, we each had a proper haircut, and got satisfaction from rubbing our hands across our heads to feel the bristle-like stubble that would quickly begin sprouting for its next visit to Rusty’s.

For the adults, and something that the younger patrons would emulate, there was a certain air of tolerated stoicism with the ritual of haircutting. This was especially true when each was seated in the tonsorial throne and Rusty was plying his trade. It crossed my young mind that these stern men of agriculture held similar airs when attending church. Or, other such fish-out-of-water situations. These were men with textured hands and faces as rough-hewn as century-old barn siding. Their element was working livestock, elbow-deep in grease and oil working on their tractors and equipment, or especially when working a field. On their land, each was the true captain, helming his land-based ship across acres of cropland, planting, cultivating, harvesting. Rusty’s was almost as discomforting as church. At least there wasn’t the starched collared white shirt at the barber’s. Each secretly thought that they’d rather parade down main street in a tutu, a thought never shared with their brethren of the land. Visiting Rusty’s forced them out of their comfort zones by a good rod or two. Since cranial grooming was an acceptable social necessity, and all men did it, they were resigned to be a band of fated farm warriors, forced to endure this societal peccadillo if for no other reason than to maintain bliss on the home front. That was more than enough reason to get shorn and perfumed. Besides, the missus seemed a little more attentive when they arrived home for supper, usually a favorite meal. She knew that her man deserved something special for troubling himself with this particular ordeal.

All who entered Rusty’s domain allowed the pampering. It was acceptable. Allowably tolerable, at the very least. Rusty understood, and approached his community role, with a reserved understanding of the service he provided. The young boys? They didn’t have a choice. If their pa or grandpa said it’s time to go to Rusty’s, woe be unto the little ‘un who squawked.

In the bigger picture, without the regular, ritualistic attention to how one’s head was groomed, a severe wobble in the community’s equilibrium would happen. The menfolk would be shambling around town and in the country, looking more hobo than tiller of the land. An involuntary shunning by others of such pariahs would happen. The men would be lucky to dine on cold beans from a can if they adopted such a scraggly appearance. It would be ‘mass-steria,’ just as Harold Hill prophesied in “The Music Man.” That is one thing Iowa’s country culture doesn’t like, and nobody wants the lack of a few minutes of clipping, shaving and tonic to upset the social applecart. Whisk, brush, snap. Ching. Next.

“In a way the philosopher and the barber are of the same guild; the barber cuts hair and the philosopher splits hairs.” ― José Ortega y Gasset, Spanish philosopher and essayist, Man and People