Here are a few stories about some "Barbers" that
performed on my hair.
It was a small Barbershop in Toronto Canada.The barber was a big muscular fellow.He had these funny things on his arms,like the old telegraphers used to have,and a green transparent eye shade.There were 2 customers waiting.I sat down and watched in awe.I have never seen a pair of scissors move so fast.5 minutes it took,and the next moved in to the chair.5 minutes,and it was my turn.5 minutes and I was finished,and it was a very good haircut.There was no talk as you can understand,just haircut. I have never met the like of him again.
I was walking by Times Square in New York and saw this sign"Haircut 25 cents".Well ,I just couldn't resist, so I went in.It was a normal haircut.Nothing special.I paid the barber his 25 cents.He put the money in his pocket and held out his hand.I shook it.I thougt he wanted to say goodbye,but he said"what about the tip?".I said "the tip,what do you mean,it says 25 cents haircut on your sign,and I just gave you 25 cents.If I want to tip you it is up to me and not for you to demand.Well he got crazy."How in the **** do you think we can survive on 25 cents for a haircut if we don't get tips.I gave him one cent.I didn't want to look like a cheap -skate.
I like a bargain,and when I saw this sign in San Diego "Haircut one Dollar.This week half price"I went in.The place was empty,so I waited.From behind a curtain a voice said"I'll be there in a minute,sit down in the chair".I sat down,and after a while the curtain moved and a old man of about 80 came in on stif legs.I thought,well maybe his is good.I mean we all get old someday.He picked up the scissors,and hes hands were shaking so much I thought that he must have been a bartender that was good at shaking cocktails,or maybe he used to play the banjo.Well it was too late to run.Now I had a little wart on the back of my neck,so I told him to be carefull.I don't have it anymore.He nicked me in the scalp about 4 or 5 times and put something on it to stop the bleeding.Well I survived,and paid him 50 cents.He looked at it and said "it is one Dollar".I said"What about the sign?".He said"that offer is only for pensioners".I didn't want to argue,but I didn't try him again.
In Spain I had the most amazing haircut ever.The barber didn't use scissors.He performed with a razorblade held between his fingers,and a flaming stick with a cottonball on the tip dipped in alcohol.It was quite painless and very good.I havn't seen that technique any other place.
In Portugal we lived on the beach,and I didn't get a haircut so very often.Well my hair was getting a little long,so I decided to get a haircut in town.I found a barbershop at the market.It was a big market and many people from the farms were there,so the barber had a lot to do.This was my first Barbershop without a mirror.Well I had my haircut,and when I came home to the beach my dog barked at me.I didn't understand why untill I looked in the mirror.My hair was very very short.My dog didn't recognize me.I found out that the people from the farms expected a "good haircut" that would last very long.
In Copenhagen I thought one day that I should try a famous barbershop that was frequented by people that think they are something special.It was quite expensive,but I wanted to see if a haircut there was so much better.The barber started with "how would I like it-have I been here before-did I know so and so",and soon found out that I wasn't something special.After that he didn't say much.When he was finishing the quite normal haircut he sprayed some perfume in my hair like pffffff---pfffff and I was finished.It was time to pay and I gave him what a haircut cost according to the pricelist, plus a tip.He looked at me and said"that is not enough"I told him that that was the price on the pricelist,and he responded with yes,"but this haircut is with perfume" .Well I had to pay dubble the price for a haircut just because I got pffff-pffff.Never again.I prefer to be a nothing special ,and don't smell as good as the something specials. Anyway, the haircut was just the same as I would get at the nothing special barbershops.
If you have any Barber stories send them to me and I will include them in this page.
Send to: firstname.lastname@example.org
Stories I received
This is about my uncle Hart Stacks. He was
shaving a customer one day and nicked him. The customer said " Hart, You cut
me." Old Hart didn`t miss a lick stropping his razor and said " Well I had to
sharpen my razor and didn`t want to lose my place."
What's the difference between an angry circus owner and a Roman barber?
One is a raving showman, and the other is a shaving Roman.
C & J
Friday, July 30, 1999 12:37 PM
This is for your 'Barber' page.
My husband were on the road in a 1972 Ford van. It was early summer in
and we had been going around to clubs
trying to get a gig playing music. We decided that a hair cut for him would
improve our chances, plus, make him more comfortable. We could not afford the price of a barber so we pulled over in a nice little park and I took
my sewing scissors and started with my first attempt at a hair cut. I was going very slowly as I was learning how to do it as I went along. He was
hot and irritable and took the scissors and began doing it himself. The results were disastrous and we had to shave his head to erase the
of it. We didn't get any gigs there and had to drive all the way to Selma,Alabama before we found a place to play. On the way there we went thru a
military town in Southern Georgia, he fit right in with all the new recruits.
I have since learned how to cut his hair to satisfy both of us. He hasn't been in a barbers chair since. It is very nice to be outside when I cut his hair. While cutting, I visit past'haircut sites' in my mind, they are pleasant memories. It has even been long enough since that first disastrous cut that I can view it without flinching. <grin>
Hair cut story
Sat, 1 May 1999
First I enjoyed yours. About two weeks ago I was up in Maine for a business
trip, we had no meetings this one morning.I saw a barber shop down the road
and really was in need of a hair cut. When I walked in no one was there the
barber was about 80 yrs old,couldn't walk out. He called to the chair and put
a cape arond me.My busniess partner was with me and was going to the drug
store.His nickname is buzz,so I said see you later buzz.At the same time the
barber asked me how I wanted my haircut and all he heard was buzz.He took his
clippers to the front of my head,was too late to stop,he said the shorter the
better, he used a #00 blade so needless to say I have a real short
haircut,had medium to long curly hair. It does feel good may keep for the
summer,and have my son get one too.
Sun, 9 Jan 2000
This is for your 'Barber' page.
A man was getting a haircut prior to a trip to Rome. He mentioned
the trip to the barber who responded, " Rome? Why would anyone want to go there? It's crowded and dirty and full of Italians. You're crazy to
go to Rome! So, how are you getting there?" " We're taking TWA," was the reply. We got a great rate! "TWA?" exclaimed the barber. "That's
a terrible airline. Their planes are old and their flight attendants are ugly, and they are always late. So, where are you staying in Rome?"
"We'll be at the downtown International Marriott." "That dump! That's the worst hotel in the city. The rooms are small the service is surly
and they're overprices. So whatcha doing when you get there?"" We're going to go see the Vatican and we hope to see the Pope." "That's
rich," laughed the barber. "You and a million other people trying to see him. You'll be at the back of St. Peter's Square and from that distance
he'll look the size on an ant. Boy, good luck on this lousy trip of
yours. You're going to need it."
A month later, the man again came in for his regular haircut. The Barber asked about his trip to Rome. "It was wonderful", explained the man. "Not only were we on time in one of TWA's brand new planes, but it was overbooked and they bumped us up to first class. The food and wine were wonderful and I had a beautiful 28 year old stewardess who waited on me hand and foot. And the hotel was great! They'd just finished a
$2.5 million remodeling job and now its the finest hotel in the city. They too, were overbooked, so they apologized and gave us the Presidential Suite at no extra charge. "Well," muttered the barber, "I know you didn't get to see the Pope." Actually, we were quite lucky, for as we toured the Vatican, a Swiss Guard tapped me on the shoulder and explained that the pope likes to personally meet some of the
visitors, and if I'd be so kind as to step into his private room and wait, the Pope would personally greet me. Sure enough, five minutes later the Pope walked through the door and shook my hand! I knelt down as he spoke a few words to me." "Really?" asked the barber. "What did he say?"
He said, "Where did you get the ugly haircut?" !!
The Difference Between Men and Women
Woman1: Oh! You got a haircut! That's so cute!
Woman2: Do you think so? I wasn't sure when she gave me the mirror. I mean,
you don't think it's too fluffy looking?
Woman1: Oh, no! No, it's perfect. I'd love to get my hair cut like that, but
I think my face is too wide. I'm pretty much stuck with this stuff I think.
Woman2: Are you serious? I think your face is adorable. And you could easily
get one of those layer cuts - that would look so cute I think. I was
actually going to do that except that I was afraid it would accent my long
Woman1: Oh - that's funny! I would love to have your neck! Anything to take
attention away from this two-by-four I have for a shoulder line.
Woman2: Are you kidding? I know girls that would love to have your
shoulders. Everything drapes so well on you. I mean, look at my arms - see
how short they are? If I had your shoulders I could get clothes to fit me so
"thaddeus koolhoeven" <email@example.com>
Sat, 23 Oct 1999 12:09:29 PDT
One day,I wanted to get a haircut; I hadn't had one in a while. My usual
shop was closed[this was around 6pm or so, when the urge to get buzzed is
highest]. Around the corner from my shop was this tiny shop run by a chinese
guy and his old grandfather. I mean OLD.there wasn't barely enough room to
sit down, but I managed to, hoping that I could get the son to cut my hair
just like the cop in his chair. His was a nice short flattop just the way I
like them. well ,needless to say, it was taking a while, and the grandfather
had finished in the interim. Oh, well, I thought; the person's cut looked
okay, so I sat in his chair. he shuufled around , put the cape around my
neck, and just as I was about to tell him what I wanted , he picked up a
HUGE set of clippers and snapped them on. then, standing there, humming
clippers in his hand he asked me in broken english what I wanted. I
explained as best I could how to cut it like the guy sitting in his son's
chair, and he kept nodding his head..so he started buzzing up the neck at
the back of my head, all very methodical and quite relaxing. He took his
time, which I like[ no quick cuts is my motto] and I fund myself being lulled
to sleep with the soft chinese music, the mumbling of the other patrons and
the buzzing of the clippers what I didn't take into account was that since I
wear glasses, and they were off, that the guy in the son's chair had just
started his cut when I walked in and was being sheared like a
sheep...suddnly I was roused by the son, who had stepped over to see how the
old man was doing and started shouting at him. I couldn't see what was going on, but he grabbed my head and seemed to be berating him for something he
did to the back of my head with the clippers. I sat there, shell-shocked.
what had he done? I wanted to get up and run, but the son swiftly grabbed
an equally large pair of clippers and buzzed up the bak of my head over and
over again, higher and higher , all the while yelling at the old man. ohhh
man- I didn't know what I was going to do...this was definitely going to be
the shortest haircut I ever got, I thought.Finally, he said, okay, thats
what its supposed to do, and went back over to his customer. Never again, I
thought, never will I come back to this place. The cut was short,I mean
SHORT, and I didn't have to go back to the barbers for about 31/2 months.
but you know what? when I did go back, I willingly sat in his chair again.
his cuts were so relaxing, I didn't care how long it tookor how short he cut
it ....it was such a fun experience.
The Hand of Murphy
After my first experience with a True Razor, my face feels like it doesn’t exist anymore. Murphy’s Law states: If anything can go wrong, it will. The hand of Murphy’s Law holds a straight razor, and my face must be his canvas. I’ve accumulated in half an hour the nicks, cuts, and jabs of blood that it painfully took me to earn for the good part of a decade in which I have been shaving. The Nick Relief Powder I received with my Morris Straight Razor does wonders to clot the blood which doesn’t appear till I have forgotten what I did wrong, but it also has done wonders for my tolerance and perception of ‘necessary pain’.
I had been dreading and anticipating this moment for days, weeks, even years. Years ago I wanted one, but my father said you only needed a straight razor if you had rough skin or a lot of facial hair, both of which are things I lack. My skin is still as sensitive as a baby and usually nobody can notice if I go for 2 days without a shave. But I have an inborn sense of adventure and a very aggressive streak which gets most of my tools broken. Let me tell you about some of my ‘tools’.
My computer is the slowest thing I’ve ever used, because I run a dozen memory-consuming programs 24 hours a day, and I push it far beyond what its creators had in mind. I’m downloading tv shows in one program, music in another, and MS Word always ready to type. I have my web browser Firefox running 6 browsers tabs, all continually updating, with live weather forecasts in one corner and a music bar in the other controlling three different audio programs, all of which are wired with alarms and other features designed to cripple my computer and help me achieve that state of instant gratification, and for that it moves slower than a 20 year-old computer. I’ve killed two car engines from pushing them to their limits. The second engine, a 225 Slant-6, has been claimed as being un-killable, a perfect engine for my aggressive nature. It died after only a few months under my control. My iPod (which is always maxed out – of course) is covered in scratches and cannot get along with my computer because I tried to shove too much music into it. My cell-phone actually still works after having suffered countless falls, however, because I’ve used it so much the screen died, so I dial pushing menu buttons from memory and guesswork, and I answer without the aid of caller ID. Even my trusty watch, which has seen me thru countless skateboarding accidents, shattered during an overly aggressive game of kick-ball. So now is Murphy’s chance to get vengeance on my bucking the system, running everything in my life at the limit and beyond for as long as possible. Now he’s got himself a straight razor.
I unfold the straight razor like a pocket knife and grab the black plastic handle like I’ve been shown, looking at it thru the mirror and closely examining the target and wishing this could be easy. I begin on the right side of my face, being right-handed and having gone thru the exact same motions every day for years; my steady hands trained to move in a mechanical dance practiced under the morning haze of sleepiness. Not this time. Wide awake and fearful, with unsure hands I begin. Fiddling with a few angles, trying to see around the handle to where I will actually cut – I mean shave; I try to figure out the best way to start. I begin at my sideburns, working my way down with light, smooth strokes, just like I’ve always done. The sound of hairs crackling off like Velcro ripping apart sounds reassuringly familiar as I continue moving the blade down my cheek. Then I remember the only advice my barber, my supplier of this weapon of facial destruction, gave me, “always. use. Short. Strokes." Already it’s too late as I see back at the start a little sliver of red peeking out near my sideburn.
The thing about straight razors (in my opinion) is they are designed to be the sharpest blades in existence. I have a Morris Flamingo, which uses machine-honed Personna interchangeable blades. Unlike the old-timey blades, which required constant sharpening and honing on a special whet stone and a leather strop that strangely looks a lot like a strap of leather, these babies are the ultimate geometric definition of ‘razor sharp’ on a microscopic scale – Instant pain right out of the blue box of ‘hair shaper blades’. Continuing, I move on to under my ear and behind my jaw. At this point I stop and admire the distance I’ve covered without pain on my first run fencing with Murphy. All looks good as my razor hovers over my cheek, but then I lower it and the side of my neck is revealed to be lined with several red cuts oozing blood. The only thing that comes to mind is the bloodied back of a person being lashed with a whip.
Freaking out, I set down the razor and fiddle with the vial of chalky powder that I’ve been guaranteed I’ll need. For a brief moment it’s like rubbing salt into a wound, but then the pain stops and I’m not bleeding. I stare at my reflection grimacing back at me and I realize the worst part is over. Chiding myself for being so stupid, I move on and, with the smallest strokes I’ve ever made, work on my chin and over to my left cheek. The chin isn’t as tight as the rest of the face, and I give up on it for the moment after about three more bloody nicks. Strangely, the left cheek is left unscathed as I finish my first pass. I stop to check my face again and I realize that somebody could actually trace the path across my face where I shaved by the number of cuts. The right side is just speckled with red, powdery blotches while the cuts seem to trickle away following across the jaw and going up the left side only beautifully shaved skin is left.
I stop after many short, light, slow, careful strokes everywhere else I missed on my first run, with my upper lip being the crowning achievement without even a burr, let alone a nick showing. At this I want to just walk away and call it a shave, but my habits demand one more thing. My mind flicks back to that memorable scene in Home Alone of Macaulay Culkin screaming his head off with his hands on his cheeks as I reach for the Gillette cool-gel aftershave that has been the favorite part of my morning routine. I fear that it will no longer be in a moment. Knowing there’s no turning back, I rub it in thick and hard and the pain, while being even worse than the magic blood powder, goes away quickly and my skin now feels surprisingly cool and tingly. I let out a sigh of relief, thankful that after-shave is still a good thing.
I finally appreciate the fact that after-shave exists for the sole purpose of making skin feel good after Murphy’s had his way. The sensation I have as I walk around afterwards is something I’ve never experienced before. I feel lighter, cleaner, and prouder than I have ever felt in my life. I am well aware that it takes balls and stupidity to drag an open razor against my face knowing I’m definitely going to get cut at some point, but I’ve made it out with the closest shave of my life and the knowledge that I won’t need another one for a week. Part of me knows this whole experience is meant as a lesson against my aggressive impatience. Part of me knows it is meant to teach me to be gentle with my things, precise with my goals, and to take life a little at a time, rather than all at once. Going out, unable to hide the battle scars everyone will notice, I realize that I will have to spend the rest of my life learning my lesson, one shave at a time.