James Kunstler - World Made by Hand

“What’s it look like?”

“Looks like an old-fashioned barbershop.”

“It ain’t nothing old about it,” he said. “It’s the latest and most up-to-date.”

“I hope you’re not looking for a profit center here.”

“More like a public service.”

“You buy this building too?”

“Heck no. Renting it from Mr. Murray.”

“Does he own it?”

“Holds it in receivership, I believe.”

“That figures,” I said. “Most folks get their hair cut at home these days.”

“Well, that’s country, don’t you think? We aim to civilize them up. Get a town look going. Come on in. You can be our very first customer.”

We stepped inside. They had done a nice job of cleaning it up. Two brothers were still painting the wainscot. Another brother painted black lettering backward on the window up in the shop front: FREE SHAVES AND HAIRCUTS. A fourth was sweeping the hardwood floor. The room seemed especially large because so little was in it: one authentic barber chair, a sink, a counter, a few old bentwood chairs for the theoretical customers to wait in, and a mirror on the wall in front of the barber seat. He even had a motley assortment of old magazines on hand: National Geograpbics from the 1980s, a 1967 Life, a Popular Science with a cover story on-what else?-flying cars!

“Where’d you find these?”

“The high school basement,” he said. “You wouldn’t believe what’s down there. The barber chair we got up in Fort Edward. Five hundred bucks. Cheap. Have a seat. Brother Judah, come hither and attend!”

A tall, funereal, wading bird of a young man with a beaklike nose leaned his broom against the wall and came over.

“Shave?” he said.

“Huh? No, I don’t want to shave off my beard.”

“Why not?” Brother Jobe said.

“I just don’t. I’m used to it.”

“Well, at least let Brother Judah trim it up.”

“Okay. But just a trim.”

“Do you object if he trims your hair as well?”

“He can trim my hair.”

“Go to, son,” Brother Jobe said.

Judah lit a double spirit lamp under a kind of oblong kettle on the shelf above the sink, apparently a small water heater. He tied a smock around my throat and began trimming my hair, which I admit had gotten shaggy. I watched him closely in the mirror. He had all the moves of an experienced barber.

“Where’d you get your training?” I said.

“New Faith,” he said.

Stupid question on my part, I guess. Once in a while, Jane Ann cut my hair, but otherwise it was not something I put a lot of effort into. Judah trimmed around my ears and down around the back of my neck. By the time he was done with my hair, steam was coming out of the kettle. He adjusted the chair into a reclining position, put a stopper in the sink, poured some of the boiling water in, and tempered it off with a splash of cold from the tap. Then he dropped in a small white towel, wrung it out, and draped it over my face. The steamy towel felt absolutely wonderful. I closed my eyes and let the heat penetrate. Judah banged around for a minute, and then I heard the whup, whup, whup of him stropping a razor. He took the towel off, dropped it back in the sink. He had whipped up some fresh lather in a bowl and stood with a shaving brush in his left hand and a straight razor in his right.

“Can I trust you with that thing?” I said.

“I never seen a man killed yet with a shaving brush,” Brother Jobe said.

“What are you aiming to do with that razor?” I said to Judah.

“I’m just gon’ clean up the whiskers on your throat and cheekbones,” Judah said. His voice was almost comically high for such a tall, grave-looking fellow.

“Oh, all right,” I said.

No one besides me had ever held a razor to my neck before. I didn’t like the idea, but I let go of my petty fears and lay back. The warm lather felt comforting, and Judah had a sure hand with the razor. He scraped my neck clean and made a few passes along my upper cheeks. Then I heard him go to the beard itself with his scissors, clickity-click. Finally, he cleaned up the lather and whisker bits with another hot towel, jacked the chair back up, and stepped aside so I could admire myself in the mirror. I must say I looked polished up in a way I hadn’t been for years. I saw a glimmer of the old corporate executive there. I couldn’t help smiling.

“You see,” Brother Jobe said. “What a salubrious effect it has.”

“I feel improved, all right.”

“And improved for the better! That’s what New Faith is all about. You town folks have come to be a scrufty-looking bunch. It’s demoralizing. You know, I’m thinking of opening up a men’s haberdash right next door.”

“Where would you get the goods?”

“Why, we’d turn’em out ourself, just like we do now for our own.”

“You want us all to dress up like you?”

“Well, what’s wrong with that? The New Faith look is clean and upright.”

“So, none of us townies would have to sign on with your outfit officially. You just get us all looking the same and soon it’s a fait accompli.”

“What kind of fate is that?”

“Never mind.”

“It don’t sound like a bad fate,” Brother Jobe said. “Anyways, I want to present you with this. Brother Judah, gimme that there razor.”

Judah wiped it down and handed it to Brother Jobe.

“Im’a give this to you so you can tidy yourself up at home on the days that we closed down here,” Brother Jobe said. “The mayor of a town ought to set the tone for others, don’t you think? Here. We got a half a gross of’em down in Pennsylvania. Good German steel. With my compliments.”

He slapped the razor into my hand.

“Thanks.”

“And lookit, the blade locks up just so, and then you can’t hurt yourself.”

“I always was a slow and careful shaver.”

“Sure, but in a fight you want it so’s you don’t cut your own goshdurn fingers off.”

“A fight! We don’t have many razor fights up here.”

“No? It’s common practice down home.”

“Can I have a word with you outside?” I said.

We stepped outside. The heat was rising again. Buddy Haseltine was washing the dust off Terry Einhorn’s store window with a rag in an unsteady hand. A couple of women carrying baskets lingered outside Russo’s bakery.

“Care for some instruction in the finer points of razor fighting, old son?”

“Can you be serious for a moment?”

“I’m always serious. Even my funnin’ is serious. Don’t you know that yet?”

“Well, that’s good because I have a serious problem. Do you know who Wayne Karp is?”

“I haven’t met the gentleman, but I’m aware of his, uh, position in the community.”

“It appears he was down here burglarizing houses last night when all the people were over at Bullock’s.”

“You don’t say. That ain’t right.”

“Anything turn up missing at the school?”

“Not so’s I know. But we had five of the women watching all them kids and several brothers making reg’lar watch rounds.”

“I’m going to have to go see him.”

“I understand he’s got some kind of village up there, near the old landfill.”

“An old trailer park.”

“Hmmph. Trailer trash. Ain’t that old-timey! I gather you’d like some backup. You can have Joseph and them.”

“For the moment I would like you to send a courier over to Bullock to get some warrants.”

“Can do.”

“Then, tomorrow the Reverend Holder and I will figure out how to proceed with this.”

“Why him?”

“He’s our constable now.”

“He ain’t exactly the rough and ready sort.”

“I’m not looking to start a war.”