The History Of Haircuts Thru COVID

When a kid was in the barber chair Mr Penta would make a big production of pulling the pin on the hand grenades.

One of the things that was the least attractive for me as a kid was to get my monthly hair cut from Mr. Penta. My father had always gotten his hair cut, the hair he had left, from Mr Penta.

It was only fitting I carry on with the tradition.

Ever since I was able to sit still enough in a barber chair, certainly as long as I can remember, once a month I was shorn by the ancient barber.

I always thought that Mr Penta didn’t like me because I had red hair but looking back, he didn’t much like anybody.

The most vivid memory I have of my visits there as a young guy, age in single digits, is the unique method he used to keep kids like me quiet in the barber chair.

He owned two old hand grenades. I didn’t know it at the time but they were deactivated.

When a kid was in the barber chair, Mr Penta would make a big production of pulling the pin on the hand grenades. He’d always make a show of holding the detonator down so the grenades wouldn’t blow up. He would then carefully hand them to the child in the chair, one in each hand.The kid, terrified, would sit quietly in the chair while the maestro snipped away at his hair.

No matter how meticulously my mother described how she wanted my hair, it always turned out the same; uniformly about a 1/4 of an inch long.

My mother would always drop me off at the barber shop, instruct Mr. Penta — then leave. She’d return in about an hour to pick me up depending on Mr Penta’s estimate on who was in line for a cut before me.

I didn’t realize it at the time but I think she was uncomfortable with the revolving cast of 4 or 5 men that always seem to be sitting, waiting for a hair cut that would probably come on another day.

Upon my starting high school the regulars, who were ubiquitous in the shop, accepted me as one of their own.

When I entered the shop, they boomed in unison: Red on the top of his head like the red on the dick of a dog!

They affectionately called me Woody the Woodpecker.

I had the warm feeling of being accepted.

Mr Penta unceasingly tried to sell me a nose hair clipper for $5.99. It was a confounding gizmo that you’d insert in your nostrils one at a time, turn the little wheel on the opposite end and the scissor-like blades in your nostril ideally would snip your nose hairs in a uniform fashion.

In a week moment, I bought one. Whenever I tried it, I seem to cut the inside of my nose. Hurt like hell for a few days. I finally gave up trying to cut my nose hairs and just let ‘em grow.

Mr Penta, eventually retired after toiling, probably 50 years in his barber shop. Those old floors in the shop have seen lots of hair being swept up.

I must say, I miss those once a month torture sessions inflicted on me by Mr Penta from K thru 12. Maybe I have a touch of the Stockholm Syndrome.

With the coronavirus distancing and lockdown, my wife, tired of watching my remaining hair grow down to my shoulder blades, offered to give me a haircut. Didn’t bother checking her credentials for such a task. We have a good relationship based on mutual trust. I allowed her free access to what’s left on my head.

I’m now sitting on the toilet seat seeing my grey locks falling all around me.

No hand grenades or colorful poems but occasional nips with the pink razor usually used to shave a lady’s leg.