The old-time barbershop was more
Than just a place to trim the hair;
‘Twas a jolly club to learn the news,
And met your friends and cronies there.
Clack of clippers, hand-propelled,
The manly scent of good bay rum…
And while the boys relaxed and talked,
A few were harmonizing some.
The older men shaved once a week.
A flowered mug, his name in gold,
Sat on a rack with bristled brush…
A status symbol, frank and bold.
Their rustic brawn well tilted back
These patriarchs of herd and soil,
With lathered stubble are towel-swathed,
Their gnarled hands eloquent with toil.
The barber’s open razor slapped
Against t he strop fixed to the chair,
And then he shaved a half-inch beard,
Like silken strands of baby hair.
Those rugged days of leather boots
And horse-drawn wagons linger yet.
To uphold law, we kept well-read,
That pink, dog-eared Police Gazette.
Oft now and then, some oldster sighs
With far-off look in dreamy eyes
To go with me away back there
To see that old-time barber chair.
Hometown Ideals Published 1968