ThinkBlog

I went downtown the other day to get a haircut. Finding a place on a side street in the southeast side of town, I walked in to find three gentlemen standing behind some old chairs. Two of the three were smoking a cigarette, and none of them could have been younger than fifty-five.

The man that cut my hair had grandfatherly hands, strong and gentle, and he took his time. (Even though he used clippers and scissors, it took him over an hour!) This Delaware native liked the weather in South Carolina because the former state’s night air “was like getting slapped in the face with a cold, wet dish rag when you walked outside.” The conversation was never terribly lively, nor too deep. But I learned something important, listening to him and the others talk.

For a few weeks, I’ve been feeling anxious, nervous, torn down. I missed my honey and my old friends from home, having not made any down here, and I haven’t been exactly acing the classes I signed up for this semester. No time, no motivation: the cold November rain had begun to sink deep down and dampen my heart.

But sitting there in that chair, just sitting and hearing, and talking sometimes about whatever I was asked, was relaxing. Amidst the fine tobacco smoke hanging about when one of the gents would exhale, the incandescents overhead casting a warm glow contrasted with the street outside, there was a kind of quietness about these men. They weren’t worried or torn up, they were just hanging out, doing their jobs. Talking, chuckling, smoking, being well.

So next time I need to chill out and the bite of the afternoon air begins to creep up the street, I might just have to have a touch-up.

I went downtown the other day to get a haircut. Finding a place on a side street in the southeast side of town, I walked in to find three gentlemen standing behind some old chairs. Two of the three were smoking a cigarette, and none of them could have been younger than fifty-five.

The man that cut my hair had grandfatherly hands, strong and gentle, and he took his time. (Even though he used clippers and scissors, it took him over an hour!) This Delaware native liked the weather in South Carolina because the former state’s night air “was like getting slapped in the face with a cold, wet dish rag when you walked outside.” The conversation was never terribly lively, nor too deep. But I learned something important, listening to him and the others talk.

For a few weeks, I’ve been feeling anxious, nervous, torn down. I missed my honey and my old friends from home, having not made any down here, and I haven’t been exactly acing the classes I signed up for this semester. No time, no motivation: the cold November rain had begun to sink deep down and dampen my heart.

But sitting there in that chair, just sitting and hearing, and talking sometimes about whatever I was asked, was relaxing. Amidst the fine tobacco smoke hanging about when one of the gents would exhale, the incandescents overhead casting a warm glow contrasted with the street outside, there was a kind of quietness about these men. They weren’t worried or torn up, they were just hanging out, doing their jobs. Talking, chuckling, smoking, being well.

So next time I need to chill out and the bite of the afternoon air begins to creep up the street, I might just have to have a touch-up.