Fragments From Floyd

It was standing room only yesterday in the Floyd Barber Shop where Ralph presides now and for the last--what--thirty years? Monday in the snow, he made it to work somehow; hung out for a while, shoveled off the sidewalk, and then just went on home. It was a really slow day, nobody much stirring. And a Monday, to boot. Tuesday, the roads to town were clear and a few parking places opened up in the drab snow banks along Main Street. And so cabin-bound old men in overalls drove dirty trucks to town, truck beds filled with a foot of egg whites. For certain, some used the haircut as an excuse to get out of the house for an hour, even though what little they had under their caps could have easily waited another few weeks for a trimming.

Odd, in the snow. So much light reflected off it and up through the front window that it cast moving shadows deep against the farthest wall where old posters announce long-silent blue grass performances. In the odd brightness the place seemed less nostalgic of the forties than usual--almost modern--by Floyd standards. And this is a good thing for those of us gathered there waiting to be shorn. Ralph cuts hair by natural light, mostly. You want to be sure and go mornings of a sunny day for the best cut when the surgical field will be well lit. And go, too, before the conversation gets so interesting that your part on the left gets lost in talk about how nothing is the same as it usta be and who was playing this coming Friday night at the Jamboree. 'course you could part it on the right for a while. Just keep your cap on til next time.

Old men and one little boy, maybe not quite two, having if not the first, one of. He was apprehensive but brave, although you could see him almost panic when Ralph enforced the "all hands under the frock" rule. Escape seemed unlikely if you couldn't even use your hands against your captor. All in all, he showed remarkable courage sitting up on the one-by-twelve pine board over the armrest of the ancient red-leather chair, perched there like reluctant royalty, swathed in a royal blue robe while his platinum curls fell to the worn lineoleum floor that is scuffed through to the concrete underneath. But it was bravery born of distraction.

The elderly gentleman next to me played the clown as Ralph singled him out for Little Boy to focus on. (Who can blame him for wanting to see what it was making those beak-snapping noises just above his right ear. And how could he see if he didn't turn his head?) Voices seemed to be less interesting than visual effects to Little Boy so Clown resorted first to holding up fingers to count--a concept whose time had not quite come to the audience under the shears. Finally, Old Man found the magic: Here's the church. Here's the steeple. Open it up, and here's all the people. Little Boy was mesmerized. And so we saw the people again and again. And you could see little hands moving under the frock, wondering if those people were in his hands, too.

And Ralph said "Why, that's clever. I never saw that before". Law, I thought it was required that all children play that game with the toys we were born with. No, he'd somehow missed that one. And Little Boy slipped down off the bench and onto the chair seat and off it like a sliding board on the leather chair, onto the ornate footplate from whence he stepped into the floor festooned with the curling golden rites of passage.

Chances are, hair growing like it does, Little Boy and I will be there at Ralph's again some sunny morning when the lighting is good, in about a month. And as he wiggles there under the cape and turns to see the whirring shears, I'll say "Hey. L'il Boy. Wanna see my Junior Birdman goggles?"

(You can see a demonstration and make your very own Birdman Goggles by clicking "Read More" just below)