I GET MY HAIR CUT on a semi-regular basis, often selecting the day when 1) my hair is so long that it's driving me nuts, or 2) I have an extra $20 in my pocket. For the record, No. 1 often occurs before No. 2.

One of the little things in life that irks me is when the barber moves the part in my hair. It's just a little thing, I know, but it should be obvious that my part is not on the side of my head. I last parted my hair there when I was 11 – that was more than three decades ago, yet they insist on parting my hair in that same spot.

Some barbers go as far as wetting down my hair because it won't lay down. There's a reason for that! My part is two inches to the left!

But the problem of moving my part doesn't end with a wet head. The real problems start when I wash my hair and comb it as it should be ... or as it has been since 1981. Because the barber has insisted on moving my part, the hair is now longer on the one side. That means I have to get out the scissors and trim the hair to where it should be.

I generally don't go to a barber again if they move my part.

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I prefer barbershops. I never joined the hair-styling revolution. The atmosphere of barbershops can be oddly quiet. While some are a neighborhood celebration, more often these days they are simply places where boys of all ages get their hair cut. And sit silently while they wait their turn.

The magazines are pretty typical: Popular Science, Field and Stream, Sports Illustrated and maybe Car & Driver or Motor Trend. Not a Cosmopolitan or Oprah magazine in sight. If I see Cosmo, I leave.

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A few years ago, I found a great barbershop. The guy could really cut hair. But I couldn't stand him as a person. Tough choice: A great haircut from a miserable bastard or a mediocre haircut from someone else.

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Why are so many barbers bald? I often wonder if I should trust my full head of hair to someone who has none? Will this bald man get a little happy with the scissors and seek revenge on those who have a healthy crop of follicles when he has none?

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In case you're wondering, I have stopped barbers and showed them where I want the part to be. Some move it anyway, and when that happens I immediately make a mental note to never return.

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One of my favorite places when I was a kid was Larry's Barbershop on 18th Avenue in Homestead. It was a place where my brother, Tim, and I often met up after delivering our newspapers – the Pittsburgh Press and the Daily Messenger.

It was the greatest place ever, because the owner – Larry Lutz – also sold electronics and all kinds of things that were cool to a young teenager. We bought cassette players, cassette tapes, watches, butane candles and radios over the years. His shelves were usually stacked with cassette and eight-track tapes. I believe I still have some Fleetwood Mac tapes that I bought from him.

I always hoped we were getting a good deal, and Larry was pretty good at pushing his wares: "I'm barely making any money on this," and then he'd show us his book that listed his cost. I sometimes wonder if that was true. Maybe he did feel sorry for us. Or maybe he was just a good salesman.

In any case, there always seemed to be a steady stream of people coming in and out of Larry's with men and women buying CB radios, antennas, eight-track players for their cars, eight tracks (of course) and even televisions. And Larry almost always had some country music playing: Merle Haggard, Charlie Rich, Waylon Jennings and others.

He had an old-style Coca-Cola machine in there – the kind where you slid the bottle through a serpentine (similar to how you line up for a ride at an amusement park) and then up through the gate. I think a soda pop was a dime, and it seemed the perfect refreshment on a hot July day.

Larry cut my hair for maybe 18 years, with a four-year gap when I was in the military. Tim and I got one of our first haircuts in Pittsburgh from him. Actually, we got it twice, because our mom sent us back after inspecting it. "Not short enough," she declared. "I'll call him. Go back and get it cut shorter. I want it done right this time." That meant dual sets of whitewalls for both of us.

By the time we hit our teen-age years, the '70s were in full force, and so was the blow-dried look. My mom had given up on trying to keep our hair frighteningly short. My brother had now opted for Martha's Beauty Shop, which was just across the street. I didn't – and couldn't – get my hair to have that look, so I let Larry cut it. But no whitewalls. Plus, I've always had this loyalty thing. He was a great guy, so I didn't really care that he wasn't the world's greatest barber.

He was also my dad's barber, and Larry always asked about "the boys" when Tim and I were in the service. After I got out, I became a bit fussier about my hair, and I didn't go to Larry as often. I almost felt guilty about finding a different barber.

The last haircut I got from him was in 1985, just a few days before my college graduation. Larry was about to retire. We talked a lot – we were almost like family. He didn't charge me that day. "It's a graduation gift," he said.

Larry's shelves were now bare, and there was no one in the shop that day. He had gotten out of the electronics business and was getting ready to put the shop up for sale. I remember looking over my shoulder as I left. He sort of sighed as he heaved his prodigious body into the barber chair. I had a feeling that a chapter of my life had come to an end.

Not long after, Larry sold the shop and moved out of the county.

By the way, Larry was bald. And he moved my part that day.
 

 
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