Last week, after looking in the mirror and realizing that I was way overdue for a haircut, I decided to take some time out of my day to go see my barber. One of the benefits of living in a somewhat small town is that a barber like this still exists. No nonsense — you hop in the seat, he knows what you want, and he cuts that mop in less than 10 minutes with fairly little conversation. It’s old school and down to business, the type of experience that Ron Swanson would value, and if it’s good enough for Swanson, it’s good enough for me.
Part of what I enjoy about this place is that the clientele isn’t your typical Sports Clips lineup. Just a bunch of other guys who like to cut the shit and get down to business. Basically, I’ve always been the youngest guy in there by 20+ years, but it gives me the opportunity to see what kind of man I envision myself growing into, and this was never more exemplified than last week when the baddest dude on the senior circuit walked in to inspire.
He crept in while I was the only other person waiting, and I knew this guy meant business and was someone I should aspire to be. He had to have been a comfortable mid-60s, but he definitely looked closer to looking 50 than 80. At a barbershop, you naturally look at what a guy is working with upstairs, and this gentleman had a well put together cul-de-sac with what was remaining on top combed over. This wasn’t a “desperately holding onto any hair I have left” combover. No, this was a “Fuck it, it’s there, and I’m not gonna bother getting rid of it” combover with some respectable, well put together hair growth. This guy knew exactly when it was time to get a trim, and he had it down to a science.
His button down shirt was unbuttoned down to his chest and featured enough chest hair to say, “I’m comfortable with being a hairy old man, I dare you to say something.” This worked well with his respectable beer gut, which wasn’t too grotesque, but definitely didn’t hide a few extra pounds either. This gut was carefully tailored to perfection with years of draining the perfect amount of light beers night after night and was likely capped with some good, not great, whiskey. His khaki shorts were unassuming and looked comfortable as hell, but this guy really brought the heat with his footwear.
My man was rocking the most comfortable double-velcro strap gray kicks with white socks up to his shins. Zero fucks, total comfort, and truly a senior citizen sneakerhead. As I sat there sweating bullets in a somewhat constricting button down with khakis and boots (don’t get me wrong, I looked dapper as fuck, just a tad hot), I realized that I can’t wait to walk around in full comfort knowing that I’ve seen some shit, I’m full gray, and I could care less what anyone in that barbershop thinks.
You’re likely saying, “Sounds like just a normal, pretty damn chill old guy, may live the #MargLife too, but idk, pretty standard man.” And if it stopped there, yeah, you’d be right. But as the barber began mowing down my unkempt head of hair, the man I want to be in 40 years’ phone rang. It was your classic “this ringer is loud and obnoxious because my ears aren’t what they used to be, so I dare you to ask me to put it on vibrate” emitting from his pocket, and then he pulled out his early-2000s flip phone and answered: “Yep… Yeppp… No… Nope… Because I’m fuckin busy,” and then he hung up and went back to staring at the wall. I was floored and envied this man for being all out of fucks to give.
As the barber finished, I emerged from that chair a reinvigorated man, because I knew where I wanted to be in the future, and it was a vision of my old self that I loved. I gave the man a respectable head nod, and wordlessly thanked him for showing me the ways of how to be a perfect senior. I opened the door to leave, and heard him get in the chair and say, “I’ll have the usual, boss.” Cheers to you, sir. Keep owning your twilight years..
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