I’ll be the first to admit that I’m a fossil, a relic from another time. I’ve always been old, even when I was young. I’ve always identified more with my father’s generation than with my own. My friends in college would laugh at me when they got in my car because the radio would be tuned to a local Huntsville AM station carrying the Texas State Network, which focused on state news, agribusiness, sports, and other items not considered very cool for college kids in the 1970s.
But I digress from the direction I had intended to go; old fossils do that . . . .
I just can’t seem to find a good barber shop anymore. I’m not one to frequent the trendy hair salons of urban malls. I prefer an old fashioned barber shop, complete with a barber pole out front. I want to see older men sitting in the chairs waiting their turn, and the conversation needs to be on the weather or the price of cotton.
I’m looking for a barber that gives a nice, clean cut, and finishes by using a straight-edged razor, complete with warm lather, to trim along my ears and neck. Without that final trim, I just don’t feel that I’ve had a real haircut.
The magazines need to be Progressive Farmer and related periodicals. There’s no need for a television; the magazines and conversation are all that’s needed.