by Dr. Larry Moses
Submitted Mar. 12, 2008
No one asked me but…I went to the barbershop Saturday. Unless you have been on the moon you know that is an interesting statement. Bevan Dalley the only practicing barber in town was working around the house when he had an accident and lost the fingers on his left hand. Not only is Bevan one heck of a nice guy, he was also the person who kept most of the men in town looking civilized. I met Bevan fifteen years ago when I moved to the valley. He has made it possible for me to still say I have never had my hair ‘done’. You get your hair ‘done’ at a salon; you get a haircut in a barbershop.
I went to a barbershop by myself for the first time when I was ten years old. My mother gave me and my younger brother $1.25 each and sent us off to the barbershop. She had always gone with us before and given instructions as to how our hair was to be cut. She would then go grocery shopping, for no self respecting women would wait in a barbershop. But that day, she handed me the money and told me to walk to the barbershop with my younger brother. That was one of my first rights of passage. I was going to the barbershop without my mother. The local barber knew how my hair was to be cut. I would ask for a butch, but he would always leave the front lock my mother ordered.
This was a shop in the big town of Des Moines; Iowa, with four chairs and most of the time there were four barbers. Like all barbershops, you were served in the order that you arrived. It didn’t matter if you were a ten year old kid or the local mayor; you took your turn in the order of your arrival. In this shop you took the barber whose chair opened first, unless you had a preference and then you surrendered your turn until the barber you wanted was available. As a kid you had no preference, you merely took the next one that opened. From the time I was eight until I was twenty I got my hair cut in the same shop. The barbers came and went but the shop remained the same. I did finally, as a sophomore in high school, get the butch haircut I wanted. I stepped bravely into the chair and in my most manly voice stated, “Butch it off”. The barber immediately went to the phone and called my mother for permission. My mother told him it was okay and he then took my manly direction. My mother made me keep a hat on so she didn’t have to see it. I wore that butch hair cut until I married at age 22. I was one of the few recruits that joined the Marine Corps that didn’t need a haircut. I got one anyway.
There was a period of time when my wife cut my hair. As a young teacher with a growing family and with the price of haircuts going to over two dollars my wife went to Sears and bought a set of clippers. By reading the instructions and a bit of trial and error, she learned to cut my hair and that of our three sons. As much fun as that was, as soon as I could afford it I went back to the barbershop. I must admit that my boys did go to a stylist sometimes. Hair was not one of the battles we chose to fight with the boys. Having learned a valuable lesson from my mother, I believe my youngest son wore a hat night and day for two years.
The barbershop is much more than a place to get a haircut. It is a retreat where, amid the bay rum smell men can congregate to read men’s magazines and talk man talk. The barbershop is the last bastion against the feminization of the American male. The small town barbershop is the hub of information. A place where dead animal heads hang and men talk about the happenings in town. If that kind of talking is done in a hair salon, it is gossip but in a barbershop, it’s “man talk”.
In the small town of Maxwell, Iowa, where my wife’s grandfather lived, the barbershop was manned by two brothers who cut hair in the same place and the same manner for decades. The older of the two Minear brothers cut hair until he died at over 90 years of age. His brother had died still cutting hair in his late 80’s. They had only one style of cut and every local male over forty had the same haircut. By the 1960’s, the younger guys had wimped out and were going to the beauty salon. However, I would take my boys to the barber shop when we visited in the summer and they would protest vehemently. The Vegas boys were not impressed with the bowl cut. But my wife’s grandfather went there everyday to play chess and meet with the other men of the community. One morning during his eighty-seventh year, he hadn’t shown up by 11:00 am so they check his house and he had passed away while getting ready to go to the barbershop.
On Friday I saw sign in Bevan’s window stating the shop would be open on Saturday, March 1. I was relieved to see I would have an opportunity to get my regularly scheduled hair cut. I arrived at about 9:15 to be greeted by two gentlemen I did not know. Bevan was there, left hand bandaged, and that did not look too promising. Ben Robison was also there and I knew Ben had cut hair earlier in his life and I thought maybe he was going to do the duty. However, he explained he, too, was there for a haircut. Bevan said that a fellow from Boulder City would be cutting hair but he was late. I explained to Bevan he was not late according to Bevan’s time of nine-ish. Bev would arrive anytime after nine but very seldom at nine. A great deal of affectionate ribbing developed over the hours Bevan kept. But to be fair to Bev, he never sent a person away and his lunch time was as irregular as his start time, for he always waited until he had a break in demand. It was not unusual to go by Bev’s place after dark and see Bevan still cutting hair. One other thing Bevan’s work pattern indicated was when the deer hunting season was; because he was closed. I don’t know if the barber from Boulder City ever arrived. By 9:40 am we had convinced Ben to get his clippers and fill in. I got a great haircut as Bevan supervised. I don’t know if Ben ever got his hair cut. But he did lose his place in line.
While Ben was cutting the hair of the first person in line, Dr. Bret Staley came in. The conversation turned to the two times the bank was robbed in town and I learned that Bret’s dad was killed in the first robbery. I also found out that the good doctor had gone to school in Davenport, Iowa. Having grown up in Iowa, the conversation took a turn to how cold it could get there. A mother and her daughter came in and delivered a plant and what looked like some cookies for Bevan. Later two ladies stopped briefly with some kind words for Bevan. This showed the difference in male and female methods of empathizing with their fellow man. While the women gave a more direct means of empathy, the manly means was the good natured teasing about everything from the erratic start time to comments about the accident itself. But both surely indicated the respect and love the community has for its only barber.
Over the years some of the most interesting conversations I overheard at Bevan’s barbershop were those between Bevan and Buster Horn. For those new to the area and never knew Buster, Buster was a fixture in the valley for many years. Buster was mentally challenged and his day basically consisted of riding his bicycle between Overton and Logandale. Buster was powered by Pepsi and he often refueled at Bevan’s. Buster would stop by the shop on his route from Overton to Logandale. He would always have something to tell Bevan and I could never understand a word but Bevan not only could understand but actually held a major conversation with Buster as he continued to cut hair. The last time I saw Buster in Bevan’s, I told Bevan I was worried and he asked why. I said I think I understood him. Buster was as much a fixture of the valley as the barbershop and he is missed.
Here is hoping that when the swelling goes down, Bev will be able to go back to the shop and clean up the men of town once again. Part of the morning banter was the fact that Bev had cut a perfect forty-five degree angle, he was working on baseboards. It appears to have left a good portion of the left index finger. If all goes well, he may be able to use that finger and his undamaged thumb to maneuver a comb in his left hand.
If he needs practice, I will be there for the first hair cut. We can always butch it and try again. When I spoke with my youngest son who lived in the valley and had a number of haircuts from Bevan, he said he wanted to know when Bev was back to work so he could come and get a hair cut. I think all of us with out much hair to lose would be willing to serve as practice models. It will just be great to have Bev back and have a chance again to discuss the state of the high school athletic programs and less important things like who will be elected president.
Thought of the week….Those who trade liberty for security will have neither.
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