It was Edward IV in 1492 who granted the charter for the creation of the barber’s guild… The Company of Barbers. Surgeons were given a charter 30 years later… giving you an idea what was considered more important at the time. Then under Henry VIII in 1540 the guilds were joined to form The United Barber Surgeons Company. You were apprenticed to both trades when joining the guild. Keep this in mind the next time you get nicked by your barber during a shave.
The art of cutting hair had been around for thousands of years before Edward thought to elevate the activity to the status of skilled trade. Razors have been found dating to 3500 BCE in Egypt. Over the sweep of history, whether by choice or law (Peter the Great of Russia taxed folks with beards), men have turned the cutting, shaving, shaping their hair to skilled artisans.
Somewhere along the path of development… the gift of gab was added to the barbering craft. It had to start in Italy…
Barbering was introduced to Rome thru the Greek colonies in Sicily in 296 BCE. In those days free citizens of Rome had to be clean shaven (beards signified that you were a slave)… and a morning tonsure became part of a free man’s daily routine… the barber’s place of business became a center to meet, exchange news and gossip. “Hey, did you hear that Senator Erroneous was caught with a goat in delecto flagrante…”
I’ve been thinking about this. Not about Senators getting caught in delicate situations… I’ve been thinking about the folks who I have entrusted to the task of cutting my hair.
So I have made one of my periodic reviews of who’s who in my life… Let’s forget the first 5 years or so of my life… because I certainly have… but soon after moving to 25 Alston Avenue I began to have my haircut at a barber shop at the base of Fountain Street in Westville. That shop was nestled between a pharmacy and an art supply store. This is where I would go for the next 11 years of my life to get a haircut.
At the beginning it would be Mommie Soph who would drive me there. There were two barbers cutting hair. I would always get the owner. A man whose name I sadly forget. I remember Mommie Soph would sit patiently waiting for me to get down from the chair… she would hand me the money, which included a tip, and I would duly give it to the barber. And he would always graciously thank me, and thank Mommie Soph.
Lynn may have taken me to some of those early visits, too. Particularly once she got her driver’s license.
But I reckon I was 10 or 11 when I was given permission to ride my bike to the barbershop myself. I loved the sense of independence… turning right on Edgewood, turning left on Central then to the corner of Fountain. Maybe two miles from our home. I was given the cost for a haircut, tip and a little extra so I could get a comic book at the neighboring pharmacy.
When I was 16 I drove to the shop. My barber was Italian (in fact, all my barbers have been Italian)… and he would tell me stories about being in the army during WWII… being in Italy, the food & shampooing hair on a daily basis, which he swore was essential to maintaining a healthy head of hair.
When I moved up to Schenectady for my four years at Union College, my barber was Augie. His shop was walking distance from campus on Union Street. Augie introduced me to the razor cut… something that proved to be more effective in taming my wild kinky/curly locks. This was also my first experience in getting a pre-cut shampoo. The nature of the gab ratcheted up with Augie. Sports, politics, college life, studies… Augie had a good gift.
Upon graduation and before entering the work force, I had a brief sojourn in the Active Service. My army haircut was an aberration. Conversation was certainly not part of the equation. I made the mistake of light heartedly asking the barber trim the back and take a little off the sides. “Anything you say…” as he took his clippers to my head with efficient and uncaring speed.
Then, back in the civilian world, Aldo cut my hair in New York for the next 24 years. And if he was on vacation when I needed a cut, then Frank, the shop owner, would step in. I think in 24 years, Frank cut my hair less than ten times… and never as good as Aldo. And the conversation was never up to speed, either.
With Aldo sports, politics, women and jokes dominated the gab. He was also interested in our clothing business. It turns out that he cut the hair of some of the guys over at J. Press. I didn’t want to let on; but I thought that this was grounds for treason. I bit my lip… I liked Aldo too much to defect… I was just very circumspect about business talk… If things got too close to “information” I would quickly tack to another course… “Can you believe that Senator So-And-So got caught with his zipper down…”
Leaving New York in 1996 was traumatic for me. On many levels. I only glance back occasionally to those days, the light is blinding and deeply disturbing.
Considering the other issues in my life at that time, where I was going to get my next haircut should not have been a pressing concern. Yet finding a barbering emporium that has been my “home” for these last ten years has been no small blessing.
My first visit to the Franklin-Philip Salon had actually taken place some twelve years before. This is where we took Zack for his first “big boy” haircut. There was a part of the salon that was fitted out with booster seats and TV sets playing cartoons. And not dumb cartoons; but Disney stuff or classic Warner Brothers. I loved it! Connie cut his hair. She would also cut Shaina’s and Suzy’s when they were little.
When I returned to the salon in 1996, regrettably the cartoons were gone. But I would soon see that Philip DiConstanza was more than capable in the cutting-of-the-hair department without the aid of Winnie the Pooh. And in the gab department he would stand without peer.
Over the years we have had both serious and hilarious conversations. Social issues, world affairs, politics, kids (our kids went to Columbus School), jokes and music… music big time.
When not attending to heads of hair, Philip pursues his passion for music. He plays guitar, writes music and plays in a group. A haircut doesn’t go by when we do not trade a least one music related story. Philip suffers my dislike of John Lennon and my luke warm appreciation of Bob Dylan. But we are in total accord about Tighten Up by Archie Bell & the Drells being the worst song of the 20th Century (edging out Drop Kick Me Jesus Through the Goal Posts of Life).
At some point during my haircut, brother Frank will emerge from the back office… I consider him to be our Greek Chorus… he fills in the gaps of the story lines. He also has a handsome inventory of puns and political insights which will usually find their way into the gab. Like Philip, he is a splendid audience for my jokes. Anyone, by the by, who laughs at my jokes I consider to be splendid. Splendid, and very, very bright.
On my last visit to the emporium I dusted off an old joke that Paul and I used to tell twenty-five years ago. We retired it from our repertoire once we had exhausted our list of worthy targets. It is without question the most repulsive joke I have ever told. Bobby Bellin who told me the joke said that I wouldn’t laugh at it on first hearing… it had a “delayed fuse”. But Bob had assured me that after two days the joke’s hilarity would bloom. This turned out to be very true.
There have only been two people who laughed at the Aristocrats joke “out of the box”… who could immediately see the intense irony: Rabbi Robert Goldburg and Philip DiConstanza.
My haircuts take longer these days. Which is a bit ironic since there is far less to cut. When Augie cut my hair all those years ago, the floor surrounding my chair looked like a Merino Ram had just been sheared. Today? After an hour’s worth of careful clipping with scissors that could be used to manicure a bonsai tree, there isn’t enough hair to put into a lunch bag.
I think that one of the reasons it takes an hour is that we love the schmooze. An hour could just as easily turn into two.
I scan the years. The casual disregard I take to hair grooming between visits should in no way reflect poorly on the collective talents of my barbers. To a man, each has more than demonstrated skills meriting placement in the Company of Barbers.
50+ years, four barbers. Thank you gentlemen.
