Effeminacy is defined as failure to act when one’s actions would lead to a loss of personal comfort. Keep that in mind. I’m about to pull a Trump Weave but I promise there’s a point.
This afternoon, yours truly decided to try a new barber shop. Those of you who’ve seen me in the flesh are probably laughing right now as there isn’t much hair left to sheer. But for me, as dear old Dad taught me when I was a boy, men don’t get their hair cut for the sake of fashion but merely for grooming. He lamented that proper barber shops had given way to unisex “salons”. And don’t even get me started on his take on men using blow dryers and mousse. Look, fellas, a little pomade? Sure. But don’t go nuts. Your hair serves one purpose – to insulate your scalp. By the time you’ve hit your 40’s, if it’s still there well good for you (said with a bit of snark). But those of us still producing testosterone simply command our scalps to deal with it and move on. There’s nothing wrong with growing older. Keep in mind this is coming from a guy born in New Jersey where every male that opens the womb is handed a can of Aquanet and a guide to swearing on the Turnpike.
The barber shop I went to was recommended to me via a local Catholic newsgroup. I decided to give it a try specifically because it called itself a “barber shop”. It even had a spinning striped pole out front. What fun. The pictures on the website showed a shop that reminded me so much of that barber shop I used to go to with my dad when I was a kid. You know the kind of place. A couple of rows of old-school barber chairs. They even had ash trays in the arms. Though I did not attempt to light up, I probably could have and gotten away with it. And here’s another plus – and you know I’m not a misogynist – all the barbers (and all the clientele) were men. But just as I don’t want to see women in a men’s locker room, there’s something about a barber shop that calls for a male-only atmosphere. It’s not the conversation. That ought to be gentlemanly and above-board regardless. I think it goes back to this being all about grooming. In fact, I prefer to get in, get it done, and get out – just like the locker room. That’s why the conversation pretty much revolves around sports and the weather. These are things a couple of guys can discuss on the fly, quickly and without offending each other or being weird.
Imagine my surprise when I was greeted by the only woman working this joint. “OK,” I thought, “I’m sure she’ll be fine. I just hope she doesn’t try to engage me in the story of my life.” That always seems to happen when a woman cuts my hair. “So… Tell me about yourself. Where’d you grow up? What do you do for a living?” Please, for the love of God… I’ll make a deal with you. I’ll be quiet and let you practice your art if you practice your art and let me be quiet.
Here’s where the fun began. She offered me a beer. I don’t usually drink beer but I appreciated the offer and accepted. She seated me in the aforementioned beautiful chair and before she draped me, she asked how I wanted my beard trimmed. I was prepared. I whipped out my phone and showed her a picture of Tsar Nicholas II. Her eyes bugged out of her head. She paused and said, “Ooh! A challenge! I accept.” So we started talking as she started clipping. Maybe it was the beer, but I actually opened up and conversed with this woman. Nah, it’s because I’m a gifted conversationalist (and a little bit the beer). I discovered that she was from Mexico and that she and her husband (who was cutting hair in the next chair) were the owners of this shop. Her father-in-law had taught both of them and her husband’s four brothers the art of cutting hair. I told her of my career arc from studying to be a priest to producing TV shows and writing news copy to teaching to running a few schools. She had wanted to be a teacher in Mexico but the number of applicants to open positions was prohibitive. She met her husband, learned how to cut hair, moved stateside, and is living the American dream.
As she clipped away we continued to chat. Here’s where I learned that perhaps she should not have become a teacher, or at least not a history teacher. “The picture,” she said. “Is he related to you?” I pondered in my mind exactly how old she thought I was. “Tsar Nicholas?” I asked, almost spitting out my drink. “No, he was the last tsar of Russia.” She paused a moment and asked, “How long ago?” I replied, “He was executed with his whole family in 1917.” This is where I began to wonder if she had been sipping a beer. Her eyes bugged out of her head and she asked with all the shock and horror of an immediate family member, “NO!!! Why they kill him?!” Teaching my new friend I said, “OK, one, you left out the verb ‘did’ and two, they did kill him because the communists took over. And the worst part is that his cousin was the king of England and he did nothing to help him when he could have easily given him asylum.” She nodded and said, “Why he no help him?” while wiping away a tear. I chuckled at her tears because until two minutes earlier she had never heard of these people. And here’s where I began to know for sure that I had indeed been sipping beer. “Why they do that to him? Because King George was a frightened little bitch.” Her English wasn’t perfect by a long shot so she stared a bit before saying, “Puta?” “Yes,” I said, “Madre de todas las putas.” I learned that one from that sacrilege at St. Patrick’s Cathedral in New York last year. My tipsy Mexican barbress and I burst out in laughter.
“You speak Spanish?” she asked. “No,” I replied. “Only English. And a little Latin.” So then she opened the door for a little trad-vangelization. “Oh! When my mother-in-law comes to visit from Mexico she like to go to…” She paused but I finished her sentence because it was so obvious. “Latin Mass?” I asked. “Yes! So we go with her when she’s here.” We bonded over our shared Catholic faith and I told her she didn’t have to go only when her madre de todas mother-in-law was in town.
By now you may be wondering if she had completely removed every hair from my face. Well hang on. We’re almost there. I thought more about Nicholas and George. One allowed the other to be brutally murdered with his wife and children when he could have easily saved their lives and all because he feared that Nicholas’ presence in England might stir up anti-monarchist sentiments there and he might be driven off the throne himself. See above about effeminacy. And now see where it leads. And ponder this about Bergoglio and cardinals who will not speak up when they must surely know the truth. Ann Barnhardt has made the excellent point before that all it would take is an iPhone and a simple statement. “Significant irregularities surrounding the putative resignation of Pope Benedict XVI have been identified…” And they still won’t do it. It’s not all bad though. A few have spoken up but none of the cardinals. Don’t ask what they’re afraid of anymore. Think of all they’d have to give up and pity them. And pray for them. And pray for each member of the Church. And fast.
As for the beard? She nailed it. Only took her two hours.
Our Lady of Copacabana, pray for us!
Harvey Millican's Blog: Musings of a Trad Dad 