Simple Matters

Your agent received his monthly haircut last week. This involves a quick shave of my skull with a number three razor. It's a relatively brief and simple affair.

As the years have passed, I've regarded the notion of simplicity with increasing reverence. It's not always easy to achieve, but it can make a big difference when you're able to keep life relatively simple. I wish I had learned this much earlier in life.

Close-cropped hair, of course, is certainly one form of simplicity. It's easy to get up and go with a shaved head. You don't have to look in the mirror to see if your hair is pointing in different directions. You can just stroll out the door.

Even after a quick shower, only a quick skull-dry is necessary with a simple haircut. And if you're prone to wearing a hat, I have some very good news for you.

You'll never have hat head again.

***

Of course, a close shave of the human skull isn't always a simple matter. It's a task that can still be managed badly. That's why it's useful to consult an expert when you need help with simplicity.

In the centre of the old town is a barbershop. You could easily walk past it without noticing. In fact, some people do exactly that.

The barbershop is located on the main floor of an old office block. Along this main level is a string of store-front businesses. The barbershop's space is the tiniest of these establishments. It's wedged like an afterthought between two retail stores.

While the rest of the businesses sport modern, illuminated signs, the barbershop is unique. It bears only a small, wooden sign. The lettering on the sign has been painted with an expert hand. The letters are black on a white background.

Oscar says the name of the barbershop is a primary example of marketing genius. He says it harkens back to an era when life was simple and clear. Apparently, this was before the days of rampant capitalism.

The sign simply reads: Barber Shop.

***

Most people walk past the barbershop even though they're aware of its presence. Very few of them have any interest in such a place. Their needs are met at salons, spas or the ubiquitous suburban hair-cutting centre.

Another group of people walk past the barbershop because they've been there before. These folks have no intention of ever gracing its door again. If asked, they would probably give you the following advice: Don't go there. If you do, you'll look like your hair was cut while you were rolling down a hill.

This is, of course, a bit of an exaggeration.

***

But this warning is still mostly true. The sole proprietor of the barbershop has no idea what she's doing with a pair of scissors in her hand. Oscar says she only learned one particular style of haircut at barbering school. No matter what the customer asks for, he'll always receive the same haircut.

Oscar calls it "the 1972 Soviet bureaucrat cut."

But everyone, of course, is good at something. And the proprietor of the barbershop is very good at a singular aspect of barbering. She's very good at shaving heads.

She takes her time when she shaves your head. She pays attention to detail. With great care, she ensures that each cropped hair is uniform with the others. She does this simple job very well.

***

The barber is also very good at trimming hair from your eyebrows, ears and nose. You might even say she relishes this aspect of her work.

With obvious enthusiasm, she'll scour your head looking for any errant wisps protruding from these areas. Upon locating an offending hair, she'll cry out in triumph and quickly snip it off. If it's a particularly long hair, she'll hold it up like an extracted tooth.

"Look-it that sucker," she said to me once, holding up an impossibly long hair extracted from my left eyebrow, "you musta been picking up radio stations with that one."

She calls these particular offenders rogue hairs.

***

The sole proprietor of the barbershop is a woman in her sixties. Everyone calls her Hennie. Apparently, this is a shortened version of Henrietta. She stands a little over four and a half feet tall. We have spoken about her in these pages on a previous occasion.

Oscar says very few people name their kids "Henrietta" anymore. He could be right about this.

The only people who frequent Hennie's barbershop are those who require a well-shaved head. They're quite aware of her proficiency in this area. A few people from the old town's military community frequent her establishment. One of them told me that she's regarded as a subject matter expert when it comes to head shaving.

Also, she only charges six dollars for the task.

It's always great when simplicity is inexpensive.

***

Hennie, according to popular opinion, doesn't make any money from the barbershop. This is probably true. Even at the low price of six dollars, she has very few customers.

Fortunately, she doesn't really need the money, anyway. I'm told that she owns the entire office block. Apparently, the building has been a family asset for three generations. The barbershop, Oscar tells me, has always been in the family, too.

One can only guess at Hennie's motives in operating a money-losing barbershop. Perhaps it keeps her busy or gives her a purpose in life.

Or maybe she's just passionate about shaving heads.

***

The barbershop itself is extremely small. It's about the size of a spare bedroom.

A trio of chairs is backed against the window. Only a few feet separate this area from Hennie's barbering chair. There can be no secrets between yourself and the barber, when someone is sitting in one of the chairs.

Of course, Hennie has no interest in sharing secrets with the customer in front of her, anyway. Her life is an open book to anyone within earshot. From the time she opens at ten o'clock, until closing time at four, she maintains a steady, verbal stream of consciousness for everyone's consumption.

Oscar says Hennie's as crazy as a bag of hammers. He could be right about this.

***

Hennie's constant dialogue can ramble across many diverse topics. But there are several recurring themes. Frequently, she'll talk about her friends, her adult son and, of course, the weather.

In particular, Hennie tends to talk about two particular friends. The first is a man named George. I have no idea about his true connection with Hennie. But I believe they're friends and neighbours.

Over the course of monthly head-shavings, I know the following details about George:

• He has a very bad case of diabetes (If he doesn't watch it, Hennie says the doctors are going to take his legs off at the knee.)

• He doesn't look after himself very well (Apparently, he's still on the "cancer sticks" and eats fast food with reckless abandon)
  

• He owns a condo in Florida and goes there every winter (That's when Hennie looks after his plants and his retarded cat).

***

Fiona is Hennie's other friend. They seem to spend a lot of time together. They go out for meals, movies and shopping. Fiona doesn't have a car, so Hennie does all the driving.

According to Hennie, Fiona's life is consumed by one problem after another. She has several adult children who are always in trouble. She used to be married to a man who had very bad mental health problems. Every now and then, he reappears in her life.

Hennie says Fiona's ex-husband has a bad case of schizophrenia.

Hennie likes to talk about all the advice she gives to Fiona. Most often, she suggests that Fiona should tell her adult kids and her former husband to "stick it where the sun don't shine."

Hennie seems to think this is a good method for solving most problems with people.

***

Sometimes, Hennie will surprise you by asking you a question about yourself. But she really has no interest in your response. She always answers her own questions anyway.

On a few past occasions, she asked me what I did for a living. Before I could respond, she started talking about her son's occupation.

Hennie's son, Paul is a long-haul truck driver. Apparently, he has been to every state and province in North America, except the great State of Oregon. He had a chance to drive through it last year, but, in the end, decided to take a different route. Hennie said it would've added too many hours to his run.

Nevertheless, she remains confident that her son will eventually drive his rig through Oregon.

"I told him to not worry about it," Hennie said matter-of-factly. "Oregon ain't going anywhere in the meantime.

***

If Hennie ever allows me to tell her what I do for a living, I know what I'm going to say. I'm going to tell her I'm a rodeo clown.

***

Hennie's favourite topic, of course, is the weather.

In the corner of the barbershop, at the far end of Hennie's barbering counter, is a television set. It's almost always tuned into The Weather Network. Over the years, it's clear that Hennie has been picking up a lot of knowledge about weather-related matters. She seems to fancy herself as an amateur meteorologist.

In particular, Hennie is a big fan of bad weather. If a nasty north Atlantic storm is about to hit the old town, she'll be sure to tell you all about it. In the end, it will sound like the storm was her idea.

Once, before the remnants of a tropical storm lashed the old town's streets, Hennie explained in great detail about the nature of the impending weather.

She sounded like Mr. Kurtz in Heart of Darkness. But instead of horrors, Hennie's concerns had more of a technical nature.

"The isobars! The isobars!" she cried out to no one in particular.

***

Although Hennie is an unusual woman in many ways, she is certainly a great humanitarian.

There is a bus stop in front of the barbershop. If there are people waiting at the stop during inclement weather, Hennie doesn't hesitate to invite them to wait inside the barbershop. She's particularly insistent with seniors and pregnant women.

It's not unusual to have your head shaved under the watchful eyes of people who are waiting for a bus.

Once, Hennie was shaving my head while an enormously-pregnant woman sat immediately behind the barbering chair. Apparently, she was waiting for a bus to take her to the local maternity hospital. I was hopeful she wasn't headed there for the baby's delivery.

Nevertheless, I had visions of Hennie and me delivering the baby in the barbering chair. Thankfully, the bus came before my head shave was complete. When she left, Hennie glanced out the window and said:

"It looks like the bun in her oven is done."

***

During my most recent visit to the barbershop, Hennie was busy shaving someone's head, while two people sat in the waiting area. The first was a tiny, elderly woman with white hair and a purple head scarf. There were a few Wal-Mart bags sitting at her feet. She was waiting for the bus.

The other person in the waiting area was Maxwell, Britney Bitterman's beau.

After exchanging pleasantries, Maxwell informed me that he was getting his head shaved in anticipation of a court appearance that afternoon. This was why he wasn't at his job with the old town's waste management professionals.

According to Maxwell, the court appearance was related to a ridiculous charge that occurred over two years ago. He was accused of receiving some stolen property, namely some chain saws from the local Canadian Tire. He said it was a clear case of mistaken identity.

Even though the peelers had no case against him, Maxwell said it's still a good idea to clean yourself up for a court appearance. That's why he was getting his head shaved before he went.

"You gotta look good for the judge, you know," he said, laughing through his missing teeth.

***

Hennie finished with her customer, a heavy-set, middle-aged man with a round head and thick neck. Maxwell quickly replaced him in the barbering chair. The elderly woman, between quick looks for an approaching bus, had taken out her knitting gear.

While shaving Maxwell's head with a practiced hand, Hennie started rambling on about her friend, Fiona. I pulled out a weathered Time magazine from a small mountain of periodicals on the window sill. Apparently, George Bush is considering a military invasion of Iraq.

When Maxwell's head was finished, I wished him well at his court appearance. He smiled and said it would be no problem.

"I'll be in and out of there in ten minutes," he said confidently. "It's as simple as that."

***

Settling into the barbering chair, Hennie asked me to "scootch down." She asks every customer to do this, on account of her height.

As she proceeded to shave your agent's skull, Hennie lapsed into a rambling summary of the weather. The government's weather experts had recently warned of a hot summer, with a corresponding rise in ocean temperatures. For the old town, this means a higher likelihood that hurricanes can navigate the north Atlantic waters unabated.

"Let's hope we don't get another hurricane this year," Hennie said quickly. She tapped the top of my skull a few times with a plastic comb.

Then she said, "Touch wood."

***

After reviewing the weather situation, Hennie started talking about Fiona again. Apparently, her family is giving her more trouble.

Fiona, according to Hennie, has a heart of gold. But every single member of her family, including the extended ones, is a royal pain.

"If I was in her shoes," she said with authority, "I'd tell them all to stick it where the sun don't shine and then I'd trade 'em all in for new ones."

With my head shaving complete, Hennie started inspecting my skull for rogue hairs. I try to do my own inspection before I arrive, so I won't be a focus for any waiting bus passengers. As she snipped at a few small wisps of ear hair, she continued to pontificate on Fiona's family troubles.

"Like that fella that was just in here," she said nodding toward the door that Maxwell had just passed through. "He's one of Fiona's nephews. . . .a royal pain in the arse since he was knee-high to a grasshopper. . . . always knockin' on her door looking for a buck or a place to stay."

Hennie paused to stifle a sneeze. Then she said, "If I was her, I'd just tell him to stick it where the sun don't shine. Because that boy's a simpleton."

"It's as simple as that."

***