My son's favorite place

My son is a boy of simple tastes. He likes chewing gum, super heroes, playing with his friends and getting his hair cut. He used to go to one of the big haircutting chains in our area, mostly for the entertainment value he brought to my grandmother's weekly hair appointment. While he enjoyed spending time with her, he HATED getting his hair cut there. The clippers sounded like a buzz saw from a mill and the ladies did not appreciate squirmy little boys. Then, we discovered the barber shop and the game changed. Instead of dodging the clippers and crying at the sight of the beautician, he collapsed into a trance worthy of a snake charmer and his flute. Then, tragedy happened. Our beloved Jerry was gone. The only barber who could cut Fin's hair and not make him look like Lloyd Christmas was gone! We all went into panic mode, going to the Facebook airwaves to see if anyone knew of his location. Luckily, our friend Philip came to the rescue and gave the great news that Jerry was opening his own shop in a much more convenient location. Celebrations commenced and all was right with Fin's world. Why would a boy love the barber shop so? I hear many stories of moms and dads holding children down in the chair while the nervous barber did his best not to take off an ear or unintentionally cut gang symbols into their scruff. Fin is the great great grandson of a barber. It is in his blood. As a woman, the beauty shop is a place to talk about the latest gossip, significant others and how best to fix your split ends. I love my stylist...she is the bestI have ever had and is my dear friend to boot. I treasure our time together. While the barber shop is, for the most part, the male version of the same, it is something more. A sacred brotherhood where men come to talk sports, crazy wives, the latest arrests and get themselves cleaned up. My father, a fairly well known and well respected engineer, has the barber blood in him. I have seen him work through many problems with my brother, husband and uncle as they sit in the chair and he trims up their beards. The hypnotic motions of watching my grandfather go in for his weekly shave at the local shop bring me back to a simpler time...where a hot towel and and straight razor made one feel like a man again, fresh and clean and ready for possibilities. The smells of shaving cream and pomade, the zip of the straight razor and the buzz of the clippers are all soothing. When I take Fin, I feel a bit like I am intruding on an exclusive club. Luckily, I am given a bit of a pass since the boy needs a ride at this point. I feel honored that I am allowed to be a part, even if just on the outside, of this process. My parents' church has opened a twice a month barber/beauty shop to help those regardless of means. I tear up every time my mom tells me of clients standing a little straighter when they walk out with their new looks. Jerry and the other barbers in our society are in a ministry that others fail to recognize. One where the heartbroken are heard, where the storytellers have an audience and where the disheveled are cleaned up and sent out looking like a shiny new dime, ready to take on the day. God bless the barbers of this world.