Checkered Floors – $18 = 1960s haircut
As I walk down the mall passing an eclectic mix of stores, from tattoo parlours to French literature I see a man in his 70s smoking a cigarette by himself. I enter Gerry’s and in the reflection in the mirrow I see the smoking man flick away his half finished cigarette. Rather than start with the cheery “How can I help you?” that I usually get at the speed-orientated hairdressers, he walks right past me with no acknowledgment and removes the towel from the nearest seats. “Have a seat”. Straight down to business. It’s a barbershop – we both know what we are there for.
When I’m not getting my hair cut I work in a photolab. A few days earlier I had printed a roll of film handed in by a group of people notorious for causing disturbances in the mall that barber is located in. I asked the barber about them and we agreed that there wasn’t anything that he, I nor the police could do. Unless of course the three of us try to make the area even more unaffordable by adding some more coffeeshops until the vagrants get pushed further and further away from things.
I look up for a moment and see a through a strategically placed set of mirrors… the bald spot forming on my head. I imagine any modern hairdressers would have these removed to appease the vanity of modern men such as myself.
For the rest of our ‘one on one’ session I treat my baldspot like an eclipse and I stare straight ahead like Im on a Bryll cream rollercoaster. On stage right the barber kept his products. They each were in their own compact little containers, a lot different to the supersized products we are all used to now where they somehow manage to squeeze an extra 25% into them. Times were good before we had to jumbosize everything.
Gerry started rubbing something on my neck. I thought it was a traditional way of finishing up a haircut. This is where I get uneasy. Im going to let you on in a little secret. I have a little bit of hair on the top of my neck/back. A little bit of scruff, and when I go to the conveyor belt hairdressers they only clip what they cab see without moving any textile. They do a little look of contemplation, then a “meh” kind of look and move on. Gerry on the other hand assessed the situation like Michelangelo standing before the Sistine Chapel licking his finger and measuring the wind in the room. He leans past me and opens up a cylinder, in it was a straight edged blade. It sounded like a sword being drawn from its scabbard, I see my reflection in it as it passes my face. Gerry takes one more step back to compose himself.
When I was 16 I told my father I would marry into the mafia, but right not I have an old italian man with a blade to my throat and I am literally terrified. I started looking back at my ties with the italian community over the years. Ciao Italia in South Perth, photographing the Italian Club dances, dating and breaking up with my old boss’s daughter… hang on.. what if Domenic has put a hit out on me! What better opportunity to “make me disappear” than at the barber where its perfectly acceptable to hold a blade to someones throat! All italian guys catch up and talk over espresso, Domenic could have asked a special favour of Gerry in his nice quiet barbershop! I bet if I go behind the counter there will be a photo of me there, no wonder Gerry was so quick to get rid his cigarette earlier, payday had just walked in the door! I was just about to blurt “IT WAS 4 YEARS AGO!” when Gerry cut me off. Not with the blade but with his gruff two word sentences that are a product of 50 years of customer service. “All done” he says.
I slide my sweaty behind off that leather seat squeaking like a couch in summer. I pay for my haircut and while he sweeps up I take a few photos. “Its been a long time since someone has taken photos of the chairs” he says. He then says he needs to hurry to catch the bus. I imagine him sitting there at the bus stop surrounded by teenagers with his blade in the pocket ready to deal italian justice… or maybe just proper grooming.
Jokes aside Gerry gives good haircuts. Check it out in the Westgate Mall in Fremantle. It beats sitting there listening to squawky hairdressers talk about how messy their partners are.
