Five-Dollar Haircut
I had my haircut the other day at one of those franchise places. I don’t have a regular barber these days. I haven’t had the best of luck with them. One longtime stylist was married to a man who had some nefarious friends. After he died, (she claimed he was poisoned) she continued to cut my hair until one day someone put a bomb in her car and she calmly told the police, “I’m sure it was just a mistake.” She left town shortly thereafter and I never saw her again.
After that, I had a stylist who suddenly disappeared. Apparently, he went to prison for something. He called when he got out and tried to rebuild his client list, but I didn’t feel comfortable having him cut my hair. Besides, he had been covering my bald spot for years without telling me.
There were a series of others. One woman, Jolene, I had to let go because my wife likened her to the Jolene in the Dolly Parton song, without any evidence, I might add. I went back to a an old style barber who did a fine job but was in semi-retirement and I never knew when his shop was open. Another woman from Mexico who was very nice began demanding cash only and that made me uncomfortable. I finally gave up and started going to the franchise places.
This time out, a young woman who I had never seen before and would likely never see again asked me what I wanted done and I explained. These days, my haircuts take about five minutes. Once she was done, she asked if I would like my eyebrows trimmed and I agreed. I asked her if she would trim my beard.
“You know that’s $9.00 more?”
“Sure,” I said, “that’s fine.”
After all of about 10 minutes, I was done and the whole thing, with tip cost me about $40. Not bad these days, but it made me a bit nostalgic.
When I was a kid, my dad would take my brother and I down to Ernie’s Barber Shop every other Saturday where we would all get haircuts. It was kind of a father and son thing before that was a thing. I was six or seven and my brother, seven years my senior, always felt embarrassed at having to go with my dad and I. He was a teenager, after all.
Ernie’s Barber Shop was a small, tan adobe and stucco building that sat directly across from the Catholic church our family attended. There were two concrete steps that led into Ernie’s shop. A barber pole swirled round and round just to the right of the door with a hand painted sign that proclaimed “Ernie’s” directly above the window. From the parking lot you could see old men, young men and kids sitting and waiting their turn to sit in one of Ernie’s chairs. When we walked in, we were first greeted with a wave from Ernie followed by hellos from the other men there. The conversation went from the Lobo basketball game the night before or the football game later that afternoon to talk of work and maybe a few risqué jokes.
The barber shop had comfy red vinyl benches that lined one wall of the shop. A painting of a cowboy asleep and drifting away on a cloud hung over the benches. Part of the cloud was shaped like a woman astride a wild stallion and wore the sleeping cowboy’s brand. I wanted to be that cowboy.
Cowboy’s Dream by Lon Megargee 1948
There was a vending machine in the corner where for a dime you could get an ice-cold bottle of Coca Cola. Opposite was a mirrored wall with shelving that held the tools of the trade. A tall jar filled with an aqua liquid with a silver top where the combs were kept, a bottle labeled “Lilac Water” in an old west script, There were shaving mugs and brushes, a straight razor on a wooden perch that made it look like a Samurai sword, electric clippers in two sizes, scissors, cotton swabs with long wooden stems, stacks of bright, white towels and a steaming cabinet to heat them beneath the shelving between two magnificent barber’s chairs.
They were grand affairs. Thrones, really. The seats, backs, foot, head and arm rests had red vinyl that matched the benches. The footrest flipped over to reveal the name of the manufacturer worked into an ornate metal pattern. Each chair had a leather barber strop used to polish the edge of the straight razor attached to a chrome loop on one side. The whole thing sat on a sturdy shaft with a wide round base that allowed the chairs to spin 360 degrees.
Why two chairs, I used to wonder. Ernie was the only barber in the shop. As a member of the barber’s union, he worked Tuesday through Saturday with holidays off. During those times when everybody needed a haircut for Christmas or Easter or if there was a big wedding in the community (and all of the weddings in our community were big,) Ernie would hire another barber to help with the overflow or sometimes take on a kid just out of barber school, otherwise it was just Ernie cutting hair for all the men and boys in the neighborhood.
Ernie stood square shouldered in his white barber’s smock, dark slacks and shoes. He had neatly trimmed hair and mustache as you might expect with just a touch of grey. “Who cut his hair?” I used to wonder. He was always smiling and knew every customer by name. He joked with the men and teased the boys by squeezing the toes of their shoes and making a squeaking sound that seemed to come from nowhere and saying “There’s a mouse in your shoe!” and then wink and smile again.
On those Saturdays, my dad, brother and me would walk into Ernie’s and find a seat. My dad would give us a dime each for a Coke as long as we promised not to bother anybody or make any noise while he read the paper or talked to his friends. When his time came, Ernie would sweep the hair from the last customer off of the floor, slap the seat of the barber chair and with a grand gesture invite my father to sit down. He would then drape a barber’s cape loosely over my dad’s shoulders, take a hot towel out of the steamer holding it by two corners and deftly wrap it around my dad’s face.
While the steam rose from the towel and my dad made faces to get the full effect, Ernie would whisk some shaving cream up in a shaving mug, an odd looking thing with a wide top and a knob for a handle. Removing the towel from my dad’s face, he would drape it over one arm of his barber’s smock. He’d lather up my dad’s face, put the mug and brush down and pick up the straight razor that he would run up and down the taught razor strop to smooth the razor’s edge. Then, with surgical precision, he would begin to shave my dad’s face, beginning with his cheeks before moving onto his chin, upper lip and neck. After every stroke, Ernie would clean the razor with towel draped over his arm. Once done, he would wipe my dad’s face with a clean towel and pull the barber’s cape tight around his neck.
That’s when the clippers came out. Ernie would carefully trim the back of my dad’s neck, around his ears and use a comb and clipper combination to get his hair even all the way around. Ernie had a hot foam dispenser that would squirt a bit onto his fingers that he would slather around my dad’s ears. Once again the straight razor came into play to shave any errant hairs left behind by the clippers.
Done, he would wipe my dad’s ears with a fresh towel, pull a comb out of the tall container and comb dad’s hair straight back, He would then carefully remove the barber’s cape so as not to let any of the clipped hair fall onto my father’s clothing. A quick whisk with a dry shaving brush to remove any stray hairs and the haircut was done. My dad would hop up and direct my older brother onto the chair and tell Ernie “Regular boy’s,” a reference to the haircut he wanted for his son, basically, a shaved head. After my brother was finished, Ernie would set a small riser on the barber chair to accommodate my short stature, snap the cape around me and repeat the process he had just finished with my brother.
After I was done, I’d hop out of the chair and my dad would pull out a crisp five-dollar bill and hand it to Ernie who would stick it into the pocket of his smock, shake my dad’s hand and pinch me on the cheek before saying “See you next time Pon-cee boy.”
I could find another barber, I suppose. Maybe even someone cheaper than $40. Someone young local who needs clients, but it wouldn’t be the same. The barber and clientele would be decidedly younger than me and conversations would be about things I know nothing about; online gambling, rent costs, side hustles and what’s currently streaming online. I’d rather travel back to Ernie’s barber shop in my memory where I sip a Coke and dream about being the cowboy in the clouds.
Copyright 2026 by Jose Antonio Ponce