I took Stephen and Matthew to story time at the library yesterday. It was more crowded than I had seen it before; perhaps 15 children and their parents, including the mother with the 2-year-old twin boys we had met before. A few minutes after the story lady began reading, a father walked in with dark haired twin boys. When I was young, twins were rare. I only knew of one set of twins in my high school class. They are very common now, though, thanks in part to fertility drugs.
A couple of annoying children were there this time, a girl and a boy who stood up in front of the story lady, blocking the view for us. The story lady tried to hold the book up higher so we could see, but occasionally she'd forget, and lower her arm. The little boy kept trying to turn every page before she was done reading it. Neither the father of the annoying girl nor the mother of the annoying boy called them back to sit down. In fact the mother was smiling at the boy who was trying to turn the pages, as though he were doing something exceptionally endearing. It really bugs me when parents don't take responsibility for their children in public places. I would never allow my kids to wander around distracting everyone else. I make it clear to them before we go anywhere how I expect them to behave. If they didn't obey, we would simply leave.
The twins were overdue for their haircuts. It's been a couple months, and while I think they look cute with longer hair, it was starting to hang in their eyes. So this morning I took them to Top Road barber shop. My sons represent the fourth generation of my family to go there for haircuts. From my grandfather down, the male members of my family have always used the barbers at Top Road. Even my father, who has lived in Maine for the past twenty years, waits to get a haircut for a couple of months before he visits here so he can have Tony, one of the Top Road barbers, cut his hair.
Tony is my family's preferred barber, though Tab usually asks for Lenny, Top Road's owner. There's a third barber there who is devoid of both personality and talent. He has a long, colorless, expressionless face, and he never smiles or makes small talk. His name is Pete, but we refer to him as "the guy no one goes to." And he's not very good at cutting hair, either. Once when Lenny and Tony were both busy and Tab was in a hurry, he let Pete cut his hair, a mistake he will never make again. In fact, I doubt the guy gets any repeat business. I wonder how he makes a living on what must be scant tips and why Lenny keeps him on. Maybe he's a charity case.
Fortunately the shop wasn't too busy when we arrived. Tony and the Guy No One Goes To were there. Tony was finishing up a customer, and Pete asked if we needed help. Tony interjected, "I'll do 'em, Pete." We piled our coats on the waiting area chairs and went off to look at the fish tank. Tony told us to look closely to find the baby African cichlids. Sure enough, we spotted a half dozen or more tiny striped fish hanging out together near a rock on one side of the tank. "The mother and father fish protect them from the others, see?" said Tony. Two bigger African cichlids did seem to be patrolling the rock. When one of the other fish made a move toward it, the parents chased it off.
Tony finished with his customer and set up for Stephen by placing a padded board across the arms of the chair for Stephen to sit on. He asked Stephen to hold his brush for him, and then set to work. Tony is a dapper little man who moves quickly despite being well into his 60s. He wields his tools with deft precision, and he sometimes sings while he works. Between snatches of "Embraceable You," he kids with the other barber.
"Hey, Pete," he calls out, winking at me. "These here are my nephews."
"No kiddin', Tony?"
"Yeah, my nephews."
"One of 'em's named Antonio, right?" These are more words than I've ever heard spoken at one time by the Guy No One Goes To.
"Nope, Stephen and Matthew."
"Oh."
Tony sings, "Come to me, come to me, do. My sweet embraceable you." Pete goes into the back room for a smoke. A shaft of sunlight shines through the back window, and I can see the smoke particles drifting lazily around and around in the slanting column of light.
The barber shop is furnished in an eclectic style. Two walls are covered with wall paper designed to look like nineteenth-century newspapers. There are two huge, stuffed fish on the walls, a barracuda and a sailfish, caught by one of Tony's friends. A stuffed ram's head is mounted over the door. Snippets of grey hair from the previous customer are scattered about the floor near Tony's chair. They are partially covered now by the cuttings from Stephen's golden blond hair.
I watch Tony work, and I realize I'm peeking into the past, into a world that existed before stylists worked in unisex hair salons in shopping malls, a world in which your church, hospital, school, grocery store, and barber shop were all within a few blocks walk from your house, and everyone knew everyone else. That world is gone from most places in New Jersey; I'm glad we can have a glimpse of it still at Top Road.