Joker Journal
By Dave Cinch
(All Rights Reserved)

Barbershop

It was just an ordinary day - surely nothing worth chronicling figured to be about to happen - when I ducked into a barbershop for a trim.

Just the night before I had been touted on this barbershop by a friend of a friend. He gave me the name of the barber to look for (Big Don), and he even told me at which chair I would find him. So there I was standing in front of the right chair, and a harmless enough-looking elderly guy motions me to sit down. "Are you Big Don?" I asked as I sat, figuring it had to be. "Nope, Don's not in. I don't usually work here."

"You don't work here?" I asked, puzzled.

He shook his head.

"Are you even a barber?" I continued, suddenly suspicious that the whole thing, from a "friend of a friend" steering me over there to the mystery barber waiting for me, might be an assassination plot by somebody I might have hustled, or check-raised, or something. You never know. I mean I've heard about some of the guys that got whacked in barbershops. Rising to my feet, I was getting ready to run for the door when the codger said, "I reckon I've cut a couple hundred thousand whippersnappers hair over the last 50 years. Yeah, I'm a barber. Sit down."

Have you ever heard the old saying "That's the only answer that would have proved you were okay?" (I think it was in an old Clint Eastwood western.) Well, that's exactly how I felt about his reply, impolite though it was, and I eased back into the chair. "Sorry, Pops," was all I could offer, feeling a little sheepish.

It was innocent enough. It turns out Big Don was playing hooky that afternoon and had a retiree filling in for him, that's all. But I'm always in a rush, and the first thing I noticed about the now apparently unretired barber was he did everything slower than a snail on quaaludes. I mean he was reeeeeeally, reeeeeeeally slow.

First thing he did was throw the sheet over me and tuck it in all over the place like he was gift-wrapping me. That took about nine minutes. Then he moseyed across the room and struck up a detailed conversation with one of the loafers in the shop. That was nine more minutes. He started back over my way and got behind me and asked how I wanted the cut. Before I could answer, he realized he didn't have his comb and scissors and walked back across the store and grabbed them and ever so slowly made his way back to my chair. 'Well, we're making progress,' I thought.

This time he didn't even ask me what kind of cut I wanted. He sprayed some water on my hair and - as St. Peter is my witness - he started making combing and cutting motions all around my head but too far away to even touch my hair. He did this for several minutes to my amazement, and then finally started zeroing in on me a little better, and a few strands of hair started falling. I'd already decided I wasn't going to question his credentials any further after the scolding he had given me, but I was starting wonder if this guy had escaped from the funny farm or something, or maybe was a candidate to get checked in.

He went on trimming for about another 40 minutes now that he was hitting his target, but slower than anything you've ever seen. Then, at last, he started to dry my hair. Or at least he tried to. He pointed the hairdryer at my head all right and was waving it around, but he never had turned the damn thing on! I swear. So now he's running the brush through my hair as he's "drying" it and I'm thinking, "Oh my gosh, I just can't wait to get out of here. At least I've got a cap with me to cover up the damage when he's done."

All of a sudden he jerks the sheet off of me, snaps it in the air real crisp, and says to me like this: "If I had wanted to assassinate you, I would have done it the night you check-raised my nut full with four-of-a-kind. Don't ever be smart with an old man. And don't let the door hit you in the ass on the way out."

Now I remembered him. He was one of the guys who thinks the nut full is a good hand in Omaha if you get played back at. Most of your barbershop hands were dandies at five card stud, 7 card stud, short cards, horses, etc. - but a lot of them got cured of gambling by Omaha. But this was not the time to be brash; I'd already gotten smart with him once and come out on the short end of it. Not wanting to wear out my welcome any further, I followed his advice to the letter and started out of there.

As I headed for the door - I'll never forget it - I happened to catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. Not only was it the best haircut I'd ever had, but the best I'd ever seen. I was drop dead gorgeous. He had me looking just like Andy Garcia. I even quit wearing my ever-present hats for a few days immediately thereafter to show off the do.

So I went to our poker game the next night, and sure enough, I'm getting sixteen kinds of compliments on my suddenly dramatically improved appearance - but nobody can put their finger on the improvement. "Are you losing weight, Cinch?" one asked. "Did you get a promotion?" another asked. "Are you on Viagra?" one of the sharpies chimed in.

"Nope, nope. None of the above. Just got me a new barber," I said.

"You been to 'Trimmer' Smith over at Lansdowne Barbershop, haven't you?" one of them blurted out. "He's a legend."

"Damn right," I said. "And I'm going back. I hear he's got gambling stories that go back to the '50s. I gotta hear some of that, even if I have to leave him a dollar tip every time."

"You leave him a dollar tip and he'll give you a mohawk the next time around," somebody joked.

"Okay, two dollars. But that's as high as I can go as bad as I'm running," I said.

"Hell, I thought you were a professional Omaha player, Cinch," somebody said. "What are you doing crying poor mouth?"

"I thought I was too, but the horseshoe fell out," I said. "I've lost eight times in a row. I might need a new gig. Maybe I'll go into pictures like Andy Garcia, thanks to Trimmer."

I guess my B.S. was getting a little deep for one of the regulars. "Okay, that's enough. Shut up and deal," he cried.

"All right," I said, as the dealer was breaking the plastic on the cards. "But get your cuts from Trimmer. He's back in action, and its not just anywhere you can get spruced up and hear about the action from the good old days at the same time. He's got me feeling like a new man. Maybe my luck has changed. Let's play some Omaha. I'll hold off on that Hollywood screen test for now. Deal me in."