Shave and a Haircul .... Six Bits

Shave and a Haircut… six bits.

That was what the sign read in the window. I am not quite sure but I think a “bit” is a modern day quarter. So back in the late 1950’s a fella could get his hair cut and his face shaved for $1.50.

I have wondered many times over the last 60 years of my life why my daddy would get a shave as well as a haircut at Lloyd’s Barber Shop. It was a little hole in the wall joint. Out front, a red and white striped barber pole revolved.  When I was a young boy, it was always one of my favorite places to go with him.

I loved the smells that hit you as you walked in. A mixture of Vitalis and cigarette smoke filled the air. Lloyd would look up when we walked in, always smile and say, “Well looky here, it’s big Coy and little Coy. Have a seat fellas I’ll be with you in just a few minutes.”

Lloyds’ was an institution in my hometown. It was the only place my father ever got his hair cut, and he always got a hot shave after his haircut. It was a ritual that both intrigued and scared me at the same time. I was intrigued by all the stuff in the shop; scared when Lloyd would hold up that straight razor to check its sharpness.

Behind Lloyd stood a row of bottles of stuff named Wild Rose Hair Tonic, Pinaud for men, and Clubman after shave tonic. To me they all smelled like my father’s after shave, Vitalis. Along side these tonics stood a big, clear jar full of combs in some sort of blue water called Barbersol. I learned much later it was to disinfect all the hair styling combs in the place.

I remember an older black man that ran a shoe shine stand in the back on the shop. He would always show me how he could make the shoe shine rag snap and pop as we whistled an old blues tune. I loved the smell of shine polish. It was intoxicating to me as men would crawl up in the big red chair with oak arms and bright shiny foot stirrups where my father would often put his cowboy boots and get a “shine”. I think it cost an extra quarter for that.

Another memory that floods into my mind was the gumball machine near the front door. It was filled with every color of gumballs known to man. My favorite happened to be green so I would ask for some pennies to try and get my green gumball. I would load penny after penny into the slot under the round glass ball and turn the handle with one hand while holding the other under the place where they popped out. Inevitably it would take at least ten pennies before a green one would roll out. Since I had nowhere to put the previous eight or nine of them they went into my mouth. My mouth would be completely filled with bubble gum to the point red ooze ran out of the corners. I was in sugar heaven.

About that time, Lloyd would be preparing to shave my father like a mortician preparing for an autopsy. He would carefully open a leather pouch that held all the straight razors he used in his trade. I thought they were beautiful with pearl and ivory handles on one end and shiny stainless steel on the other.

Lloyd would grab a long brown leather strap and start expertly moving the blade of the chosen razor back and forth to put an edge on it, so he wouldn’t slice my dad’s throat in the shaving process.

Next, he would pull a steaming hot towel out of the sink and wrapped it around my dad’s face being careful not to cover his bulbous nose. To me it looked like steaming lava and Lloyd always asked if it was too hot and my dad would mumble something under the towel.

Then it was time for the show to begin. Loyd would mix up shaving cream and slather it on. While stretching the skin on daddy’s face, he would slowly bring the glistening edge of the razor down across his face and wipe off the excess on the back of his hand. He repeated this process over and over until he had shorn every hair on my father’s rugged face.

Finally, the encore would begin as he deftly reached for another hot towel and swirled it around Dad’s face to remove all the excess shaving cream. This act was followed by him dumping a large quantity of Club Man after shave into his hands and slapping it on both sides of Dad’s face. His movements were poetry in motion. Every move he made was timed perfectly. I sat and watched with slack jawed amazement.

It has been at least 50 years since I sat and watched my father get a shave from someone else. It never really occurred to me why anyone with two hands would pay to have someone they barely knew put a knife against their jugular vein and start scraping. But several months ago one of my buddies told me he had started getting hot shaves at his local barber shop, known as Floyd’s. I asked him what it was like and he responded with a look that was akin to an orgasm. Wow, I thought, I gotta do this someday.

Two weeks ago I was walking through the little town of Sisters, Oregon looking for a barbershop. As I turned a corner I saw the sign, Outlaw Barber Shop, Haircuts and Hot Shaves. It was meant to be.

So at age sixty, after getting my first hot shave I am looking back and asking myself, why I wasted at least forty years of my life without this incredible experience.

Gonzo, the tattooed barber was as skilled as Lloyd from fifty years ago. The process was exactly the same. Hot towels, shave cream, and a slap of aftershave. The results were amazing. I have not felt so relaxed in a long time.

After he finished, we chatted about the lost art of a hot shave. He spoke of trying to bring the old timey barbershop back, complete with many of the same bottles of tonic on the shelf behind him.

I think he is on to something great and now I finally understand why my dad always got a haircut and shave. Maybe the best bargain in town for six bits.