Paul
After years of him supervising younger workers at the Nash automobile factory, he had been transferred to a different group of employees, most of them women between twenty-eight and thirty-two years old.
The change had come about partly because of his own wife entering the factory workforce. Company management had made it clear that husband and wife would not be working under the same direct supervision.
Harold had complained about the arrangement, but the decision had already been made.
Now, standing on the factory floor shortly after seven o’clock that morning, he was beginning to reconsider his objections.
The women assigned to his new crew were noticeably different from the eighteen- and nineteen-year-old girls he had supervised previously.
They were older, more experienced, and considerably more settled in their working habits.
Many were married. Some had children. Others had husbands serving in the military or preparing to leave for service.
And nearly all of them understood the importance of their wages.
Harold had expected to spend much of his first morning correcting mistakes and explaining procedures.
Instead, he found himself supervising a group that seemed to know exactly what needed to be done.
One woman, Helen, was thirty-one and had been working in manufacturing for several years.
Another, Margaret, was twenty-nine, married, and raising two children while her husband was away.
Clara, thirty, had previously worked in a machine shop and was particularly good at spotting problems before they caused delays.
By nine o’clock, Harold had noticed something remarkable.
The women were keeping pace with production requirements without the constant reminders he had become accustomed to giving.
When one station fell behind, another worker stepped in to help.
When a problem developed with a component, Clara identified it before several defective pieces could move farther down the line.
Harold watched her set the faulty part aside.
“Good catch,” he said.
Clara looked up.
“Thank you, Mr. Peterson.”
“You’ve worked with machinery before?”
“Several years. My father had a machine shop, and I helped him whenever he needed another pair of hands.”
Harold nodded.
“Well, it shows.”
By the time the morning was half over, he had reached a conclusion he hadn’t expected.
These women were better workers than the younger crew he had left behind.
They weren’t constantly distracted by conversations, they didn’t need to be reminded to keep working, and they seemed to take considerable pride in getting the job done correctly.
For the first time in several weeks, Harold felt that his workday might actually be pleasant.
During the morning break, several women gathered near a workbench with their lunches and cigarettes.
Harold was reviewing production figures nearby when he overheard Helen speaking.
“Well, ladies, tonight’s the night.”
Margaret smiled.
“You’re still going through with it?”
“Absolutely. I’ve been thinking about it for weeks.”
Clara reached behind her head and loosened the pins holding her long brown hair.
It fell over her shoulders.
“I’m ready too. I’m tired of spending half my morning putting this mess up before coming to work.”
Helen laughed.
“Mine’s worse. I have to pin it so tightly that my scalp hurts by lunchtime.”
Margaret ran her fingers through her own long blonde hair.
“And if I don’t get it pinned just right, I spend the entire day worrying about it coming loose.”
A fourth woman, Ruth, leaned forward.
“So we’re all agreed? After work, we go straight over to Frank’s?”
Harold looked up.
Frank’s?
He knew that name.
In fact, he knew it considerably better than he cared to admit.
Frank was the barber who had publicly humiliated him during their earlier confrontation.
Harold remembered the incident all too clearly, particularly the embarrassing circumstances that had followed.
And now these women were discussing going to the same establishment.
Helen nodded.
“That’s the plan. We’re all getting our hair cut.”
“How short?” Ruth asked.
“Chin length.”
Margaret smiled.
“That’s what I want. A proper bob, straight across the back and just long enough to frame my face.”
Clara nodded.
“Same here. I want my ears covered, but I don’t want anything hanging down my neck.”
Ruth laughed.
“Well, I’m going a little shorter in the back. I’m tired of hair sticking to my collar.”
Helen took a drag from her cigarette.
“I heard Frank has three barbers working there now, and they’re all willing to cut women’s hair.”
“He does,” Margaret answered. “And I heard he lets women smoke right in the shop.”
Clara looked surprised.
“Really?”
“That’s what they say.”
“Well, that would be something. Imagine sitting in a barber chair, getting your hair cut, and having a cigarette without somebody acting like you’ve committed a crime.”
Ruth laughed.
“Sounds better than some of the beauty parlors I’ve been to.”
Helen lowered her voice slightly.
“And I heard Frank’s rather handsome.”
Margaret grinned.
“That’s what I heard too.”
Harold cleared his throat.
The women looked toward him.
“Something wrong, Mr. Peterson?” Clara asked.
Harold hesitated.
“No. Nothing wrong.”
He looked at their long hair.
“You’re all planning to cut your hair off?”
Helen nodded.
“Yes, sir.”
“All of you?”
“That’s right.”
“Seems rather drastic.”
Margaret smiled politely.
“Not really. It’ll make working a lot easier.”
Harold considered telling them what he thought of Frank’s establishment.
But he remembered his own wife’s recent decision to have her hair bobbed, and he knew the argument was unlikely to accomplish anything.
Instead, he returned to his paperwork.
“Well, just make sure you’re back at your stations when the whistle sounds.”
“Of course, Mr. Peterson.”
As Harold walked away, he heard Ruth whisper:
“I wonder why he looked so uncomfortable when we mentioned Frank.”
Clara chuckled.
“I’ve heard there’s a story behind that.”
Harold kept walking.
He had absolutely no intention of discussing it.
By the time the seven o’clock evening whistle sounded, the women were exhausted but excited.
Twelve hours on the factory floor was a long day, but tonight they had something to look forward to.
Helen removed her work scarf and shook her long hair loose.
“Well, ladies, are we ready?”
Margaret laughed.
“I’ve been ready since breakfast.”
Clara adjusted her coat.
“Let’s get over there before the chairs fill up.”
Ruth looked toward the barbershop across from the factory exit.
Warm light shone through its windows.
The familiar barber pole stood outside, and several customers could be seen moving around inside.
“That’s the place?”
“That’s Frank’s.”
The women crossed the street together.
Helen opened the door.
A small bell rang overhead.
Inside, the smell of shaving soap, hair tonic, cigarette smoke, and freshly cut hair greeted them.
Three barber chairs stood in a row.
Frank occupied the first chair, Walter, the older barber, worked in the middle, and Eddie, the youngest, stood beside the third.
Frank looked toward the door.
“Evening, ladies.”
Helen smiled.
“Good evening. We understand you gentlemen cut women’s hair.”
Frank grinned.
“Been known to.”
“Well, there are four of us, and we’re all looking to get our hair bobbed.”
Frank glanced toward the other two barbers.
“Looks like we’ve got ourselves some work.”
Walter smiled.
“Always glad to have customers.”
Eddie gestured toward his chair.
“Who’s first?”
Helen climbed into Frank’s chair.
Margaret took Walter’s.
Clara settled into Eddie’s chair, leaving Ruth to wait.
All three women still had long hair, and each was about to experience her first short haircut.
Frank fastened a clean striped cape around Helen’s neck.
“All right, young lady. What are we doing?”
“Chin-length bob. I want it straight and neat.”
Frank lifted her long brown hair away from her shoulders.
“You’re going to lose quite a bit.”
“That’s the idea.”
Walter was having a similar conversation with Margaret.
“How short?”
“Chin length. Just covering my ears.”
“Straight across the back?”
“Yes, please.”
At Eddie’s chair, Clara was more particular.
“I want the back cut close enough that it doesn’t touch my collar, but I still want the front down around my chin.”
Eddie nodded.
“An angled bob, then. Slightly shorter behind the ears.”
“Exactly.”
Ruth took a seat along the wall and watched.
“Well, this ought to be interesting.”
Helen looked toward Frank.
“One more question.”
“What’s that?”
“Are we really allowed to smoke in here?”
Frank smiled.
“Certainly.”
“Even while we’re getting our hair cut?”
“As long as you don’t set your cape on fire.”
The women laughed.
Margaret reached into her handbag.
“Well, this is going to be a first.”
“Help yourselves.”
Within moments, Helen and Margaret had cigarettes burning, while Ruth lit one in the waiting area.
Clara waited until Eddie finished fastening her cape before asking him to pass her handbag.
“I’ve never smoked in a barbershop before,” she admitted.
“Well,” Eddie answered, “there’s a first time for everything.”
Frank combed Helen’s long brown hair straight down her back.
It reached several inches below her shoulders.
He separated the upper layers and secured them with clips, leaving a horizontal section hanging at the nape.
“Keep your head straight for me.”
Helen obeyed.
Frank positioned his comb just below the hairline, then brought his scissors across the section at the intended length.
Snip. Snip. Snip.
A thick length of brown hair dropped onto the cape.
Helen looked down.
“Oh, my goodness.”
Frank smiled.
“Too late to change your mind now.”
“I wasn’t going to.”
He continued across the back, carefully establishing a straight line.
At the middle chair, Walter had gathered Margaret’s long blonde hair into several sections.
He began at the back as well, lifting the hair away from her neck and cutting it just below the ears.
Long blonde strands slid down the cape and collected on the floor.
Margaret took a drag from her cigarette.
“That feels wonderful already.”
Walter combed the next section down.
“You’ll feel a lot lighter when we’re finished.”
Meanwhile, Eddie had started Clara’s haircut.
Because she wanted the back shorter than the front, he was carefully establishing the rear length before blending the sides forward.
He tilted her head slightly downward and combed the hair at the nape straight.
The scissors worked steadily.
Several inches fell away.
Clara watched the growing pile of hair in her lap.
“I can’t believe how much you’re taking off.”
Eddie smiled.
“That’s what happens when you come in with hair halfway down your back and ask for a bob.”
Ruth laughed from the waiting area.
“I’m beginning to wonder whether I should have brought a sack to carry all this hair home.”
As the three barbers continued working, Walter glanced toward Frank.
“I was thinking about bringing the children up to Ravenna Park, this weekend.”
Frank looked over.
“Ravenna Park?”
“That’s right. Thought we’d make a day of it.”
Eddie stopped combing Clara’s hair.
“Walter, you haven’t heard?”
“Heard what?”
“Ravenna Park closed last year.”
Walter looked surprised.
“Closed?”
“That’s right. Nineteen sixteen.”
“Well, I’ll be damned.”
Frank chuckled.
“That’s what happens when you spend all your time in a barbershop.”
Walter shook his head.
“I remember when that place was busy. People coming from all over.”
Margaret looked interested.
“What was Ravenna Park like?”
“Amusement park,” Walter explained. “Rides, entertainment, crowds. A place families could spend an afternoon.”
Eddie nodded.
“They closed the motorcycle racing track, as well.”
Frank looked up.
“The Motordrome?”
“Exactly.”
Helen glanced at Frank through the mirror.
“What’s a Motordrome?”
Frank smiled.
Frank combed another section of Helen’s hair down over the freshly cut guide.
He trimmed it to match, allowing another layer of brown hair to fall onto the cape.
“Milwaukee had a wooden motorcycle racing track back in 1913,” he began.
“A wooden track?” Ruth asked.
“Entirely wooden. Boards laid side by side. And the turns were banked so steeply that you almost had to see it to believe it.”
“How steep?”
“About fifty-five degrees.”
Margaret nearly dropped her cigarette.
“Fifty-five degrees?”
Frank nodded.
“That’s right.”
“Why, that’s practically a wall!”
“That’s what it felt like.”
Eddie grinned.
“Frank ought to know.”
Helen looked at him.
“Why?”
“Because he used to race on it.”
The women fell silent.
Then Ruth spoke.
“Frank, you raced motorcycles?”
Frank continued cutting.
“Sure did.”
“On that wooden track?”
“Milwaukee and Chicago both.”
Margaret looked astonished.
Helen stared at him through the mirror.
He explained how the small wooden Motordromes were built with extraordinarily steep turns, allowing motorcycles to maintain tremendous speeds despite the short length of the tracks.
“The trouble was, there wasn’t much room for mistakes. If a tire failed or a board came loose, you could be in serious trouble.”
“Did that ever happen?” Clara asked.
“More often than anyone liked.”
Frank paused.
“Those places were dangerous. Some riders were killed. Others were badly injured. Eventually people started asking whether the entertainment was worth the cost.”
Ruth shook her head.
“And you actually raced there?”
“I did.”
“Well, Frank, you’re considerably more interesting than I thought.”
Walter laughed.
“Careful. He’s already got a big enough head.”
Walter continued shaping Margaret’s bob, combing the hair down over her left ear and cutting it so the ends rested neatly against her jaw.
“Frank raced in Chicago too,” he told the women.
Frank nodded.
“Riverview had a Motordrome. About forty-five degrees of banking.”
Helen raised her eyebrows.
“That’s still terribly steep.”
“It was.”
Frank explained how the Chicago track had been slightly larger than Milwaukee’s, but the same basic principle applied.
“You rode high on those wooden turns, engine wide open, with other motorcycles only a few feet away.”
Frank continued.
“Back then, you had Indian, Harley-Davidson, Excelsior, Merkel, and other manufacturers competing to prove who could build the fastest machine.”
Ruth leaned forward.
“So what did you ride?”
“Excelsior.”
“Is that the motorcycle in the picture?”
“That’s the one.”
Frank finished cutting the main length of Helen’s bob and began checking the ends for uneven strands.
“My Excelsior was built in Chicago,” he explained. “Schwinn bought the company in 1911.”
“Schwinn?” Margaret asked. “The bicycle company?”
“The very same.”
Frank explained that Excelsior had become one of the important American motorcycle manufacturers and that racing was a major part of its reputation.
“They built powerful V-twin motorcycles. Mine’s a racing twin, about sixty-one cubic inches.”
“Is that a big engine?” Helen asked.
“For a motorcycle that doesn’t weigh much, it’s plenty.”
Eddie nodded.
“Those Excelsiors were fast.”
Frank smiled.
“They certainly could be.”
He told the women about Lee Humiston, the Excelsior rider who had exceeded one hundred miles per hour in 1912.
Ruth stared.
“A hundred miles an hour?”
“That’s right.”
“On a motorcycle?”
“On a wooden racing track.”
Margaret shook her head.
“That’s unbelievable.”
Frank laughed.
“People were doing remarkable things with motorcycles even before the war.”
He described the V-twin engine, magneto ignition, chain drive, and the careful attention required to keep a racing machine properly lubricated.
“And the racing machines didn’t have brakes,” he added.
Helen turned her head.
“They didn’t have what?”
Frank gently straightened her face toward the mirror.
“Brakes.”
“You mean they weren’t very good?”
“No. I mean they didn’t have them.”
The women erupted in laughter and disbelief.
“Frank, you must have been out of your mind!”
“Maybe a little.”
Eddie was now finishing Clara’s angled bob.
He combed the longer front sections toward her chin, checking that the hair flowed smoothly into the shorter back.
“Well, Frank wasn’t the only one interested in racing motorcycles.”
Clara looked up.
“You race too?”
“Not like Frank did. But I’ve got a Flying Merkel.”
Ruth smiled.
“A Flying what?”
“Flying Merkel.”
Frank nodded.
“Fine motorcycle. And there’s a Milwaukee connection.”
Eddie explained that Joseph Merkel had begun manufacturing motorcycles in Milwaukee in the early years of the century.
“Those machines were developed right here in Wisconsin before the company moved away.”
Frank added that Merkel had been known for experimenting with advanced suspension systems and other mechanical improvements.
“They were ahead of their time in some respects.”
Eddie grinned.
“And mine’s a racing twin.”
Clara smiled.
“So we’ve got two motorcycle racers in the shop.”
“One former racer and one fellow who wants to become one,” Frank corrected.
Eddie laughed.
“That might change sooner than you think.”
Eddie combed Clara’s hair into its finished shape.
“Frank, have you heard much about that big wooden speedway out near Maywood?”
Frank looked interested.
“Chicago Speedway Park?”
“That’s the one.”
“Two miles around.”
Eddie nodded.
“And the banking is only around seventeen or nineteen degrees.”
Frank stopped cutting for a moment.
“Seventeen degrees?”
“That’s what I’ve heard.”
Frank considered the difference.
“Well, that’s nothing like Milwaukee.”
“No, sir.”
“Milwaukee was fifty-five degrees. Riverview was around forty-five. But seventeen degrees on a two-mile track?”
Eddie smiled.
“Exactly.”
“That would be a different kind of racing.”
Helen noticed his expression.
“Frank, are you thinking about doing it again?”
Frank smiled.
“Hadn’t thought much about it until now.”
Ruth laughed.
“Well, I think you should.”
Margaret nodded.
“I’d certainly like to see it.”
Frank shook his head.
“You ladies haven’t even seen a motorcycle race.”
“Then perhaps it’s time we did,” Helen answered.
By now, the women had become increasingly interested in Frank.
They had already known him as the barber who welcomed women into a traditionally male establishment.
They knew he had served in the Navy and had been a boxer.
But discovering that he had once raced powerful motorcycles on dangerous wooden tracks gave them something entirely new to talk about.
Ruth took a drag from her cigarette.
“Well, Frank, with so many of our men away in the service, it’s nice to find somebody around here who knows how to have a little excitement.”
Margaret laughed.
“Especially somebody who isn’t afraid to let women into his barbershop.”
Helen smiled at Frank through the mirror.
“And somebody who gives a very good haircut.”
Frank grinned.
“That’s the part I’d prefer you remember.”
Walter chuckled.
“Too late. They’re going to be asking about your motorcycles every time they come in.”
“Then I suppose I’d better have something interesting to tell them.”
Frank finally turned Helen’s chair toward the mirror.
Her long brown hair was gone.
In its place was a smooth chin-length bob, carefully shaped around her face, with the ends falling evenly just below her ears.
He handed her the mirror so she could examine the back.
“Oh, Frank, that’s beautiful.”
She tilted her head from side to side.
“And it feels so much lighter.”
Frank brushed the loose hair from her neck.
“Should make your mornings easier.”
Walter had finished Margaret’s blonde bob, cutting it neatly to chin length with a softly shaped back.
Margaret ran her fingers through it.
“I can’t believe I waited this long.”
Eddie removed Clara’s cape.
Her dark hair was shorter at the nape, gradually lengthening toward her chin.
She smiled broadly.
“Exactly what I wanted.”
Ruth was next.
She climbed into Walter’s chair and asked for the same chin-length bob the others had received, although she wanted the back slightly shorter.
Walter fastened the cape.
“Ready?”
Ruth took one last drag from her cigarette and placed it in the ashtray.
“Cut it off.”
Walter gathered her long hair and began working from the back, section by section.
The scissors moved steadily as the first heavy locks dropped onto the cape.
Ruth watched with satisfaction.
“Tomorrow morning, I’m going to be the first one ready for work.”
Helen laughed.
“And Harold Peterson is going to have quite a surprise when he sees us.”
That brought another round of laughter.
Frank looked up.
“Harold Peterson?”
“He’s our new supervisor,” Margaret explained.
Frank raised his eyebrows.
“Well, isn’t that interesting.”
Clara grinned.
“You know him?”
Frank smiled slightly.
“We’ve met.”
The women exchanged knowing looks.
Ruth laughed.
“That explains the expression on his face when we told him where we were going.”
Frank returned to sweeping the hair from beneath his chair.
“Well, ladies, I hope he appreciates your new haircuts.”
Helen smiled.
“Something tells me he won’t.”
As the evening drew toward ten o’clock, Eddie returned to the subject of racing.
“Frank, where’s that Excelsior of yours now?”
“Out at my barn.”
“Still in one piece?”
“Of course.”
“Think she’d run?”
Frank considered the question.
“Probably need some attention. Fuel system cleaned, magneto checked, valves adjusted, and the engine gone over.”
Eddie smiled.
“I could bring my Flying Merkel over Sunday.”
Frank looked at him.
“For what?”
“So we can get both motorcycles running.”
Walter laughed.
“You two are going to spend your day off working on those things?”
“Could be,” Frank answered.
Eddie grinned.
“And then maybe we could go down and have a look at Chicago Speedway Park.”
Frank considered it.
“A two-mile wooden track with less than twenty degrees of banking.”
“That’s right.”
Frank smiled.
“Well, I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to take a look.”
Helen overheard them.
“And what about us?”
Frank turned.
“What about you?”
“If you gentlemen are going racing, we want to come along.”
Margaret nodded.
“Absolutely.”
Clara smiled.
“I’d like to see that Flying Merkel.”
Ruth laughed.
“And I’d like to see Frank on his Excelsior.”
Frank shook his head.
“You ladies are going to get me into trouble.”
Helen smiled.
“Frank, I think you were getting into trouble long before we ever walked through that door
By ten o’clock, the shop was quiet.
The women had departed, laughing and talking about their new haircuts and the possibility of watching motorcycle racing in Chicago.
Walter finished cleaning his tools.
Eddie swept the last piles of long hair from the floor.
Frank stood near the photograph of his old Excelsior.
For several years, the motorcycle had remained in storage.
He had concentrated on his barbershop, his automobiles, and the everyday responsibilities of running a business.
But tonight something had changed.
The younger barber’s enthusiasm had reminded him of the excitement he had once felt racing on the wooden tracks.
And the thought of a larger speedway with gentler banking had awakened an interest he thought he had left behind.
Eddie approached him.
“Sunday morning?”
Frank nodded.
“Sunday morning.”
“I’ll bring the Merkel.”
“And I’ll see what condition the Excelsior’s in.”
Eddie smiled.
“Maybe we’ll both be racing before long.”
Frank looked at the photograph.
“Maybe.”
Then he laughed.
“Although I suspect we’ll have half the women from Nash standing along the fence cheering us on.”
Eddie grinned.
“Would that be so terrible?”
Frank shook his head.
“No, Eddie. I suppose it wouldn’t.”
He turned out the lights and locked the door.
Across the street, the Nash factory continued its work through the night.
And somewhere outside Kenosha, in a quiet barn, an Excelsior racing twin waited beneath its covering.
For the first time in years, Frank was thinking seriously about taking it out again.
