Gotta’ Watch those Barbers

In the Houston Chronicle, under Bizarre Stories, I read where a barber over in Amsterdam stabbed one of his customers with a pair of scissors. This was the second time this same barber had used his scissors to inflict bodily damage, other than to cut hair that is. ( Story linked via title bar )

I worked as a police officer in downtown Houston for many years and my regular barber refused to charge me for haircuts; some kind of professional courtesy; that along with having a hired gun in his shop kept the place safe. Each month I’d visit with him, talk about news of the world, local events or police war stories as he trimmed and snipped until I came out looking civilized once more.

My son William was about due for a hair cut. I took him to my trusted barber; somebody I knew would do a great job. William was at that age when sitting in a barber chair had connotations of impending doom, akin to placing your head on a chopping block just outside the Tower of London. I convinced him that nothing would happen and went first while he sat watching from a safe distance across from me.

My barber friend was noticeably upset, stammering as he talked and a bit pale around the gills. While trimming around the sides he slipped and took a chunk out of the top of my ear with the scissors; not a little slice that could be closed easily with a styptic pencil; a gash that had blood running down my neck and had to be covered with a towel and pressure applied. William was convinced that barbers should have to wear hoods to cover their identities at this point; no, William wasn’t going to have his hair cut that day.

I found out later that my barber liked working downtown because he seldom, if ever, had to cut children’s hair. He was petrified of having to work on a fidgeting child, the chance that he might accidentally clip a portion of their ear off if they moved while he was working.

Rod Serling wrote and produced a short story for his Twighlight Zone series that had to do with revenge. A big wig politician was sitting in the barber’s chair, tilted back and prepared for a full shave when he realized the young man holding the razor to his neck was the son of a man he’d ruined several years earlier. The barber explained how his father had been destroyed as each stroke of the blade glided across the surface of the corrupt politician’s vulnerable neck. The final scene showed the politician died of a heart attack; but the barber had never so much as nicked the skin, gotta' watch those barbers.