Nash Girls: Motorcycles and haircuts

The seven o’clock whistle at the Nash automobile factory sounded across Kenosha, announcing the end of another twelve-hour shift.
Hundreds of workers poured through the factory gates. Among them were women who had spent the day assembling automobiles, inspecting parts, and operating machinery that only a few years earlier would have been considered men’s work.
The war had changed everything.
Many of the younger men had gone into military service, leaving vacancies that women were now filling. Some of the women had husbands overseas. Others had sweethearts in uniform, while still others were discovering that earning their own wages offered opportunities they had never imagined.
And quite a few of them had discovered Frank’s Barbershop.
Frank had visited the factory earlier that evening, speaking with several women on the shift that was just finishing. He had mentioned that his shop would be open until ten, and that anyone wanting a short haircut could come straight over after work.
By seven-thirty, the shop was getting busy.
The three barber chairs were occupied, several women waited along the wall, and the familiar smell of shaving soap, hair tonic, cigarette smoke, and freshly cut hair filled the room.
Frank stood behind the first chair, fastening a striped barber cape around a thirty-year-old factory worker named Helen.
Eddie, the youngest barber, was working at the third chair, while Walter, the older barber, occupied the middle.
Helen had shoulder-length brown hair, which she had been wearing pinned up beneath a scarf at the factory.
“How short are we going tonight?” Frank asked.
“Short enough that I don’t have to spend twenty minutes putting it up every morning.”
Frank smiled.
“That gives me plenty of room to work.”
“I’ve seen some of the girls coming through the factory with those short cuts you’re giving them. I want mine like that.”
Frank combed her hair down and examined its thickness.
“Above the ears?”
Helen hesitated.
“Well, maybe just covering them.”
“Fair enough.”
He picked up his scissors.
“Let’s get started.”
He separated the hair at the back of her head, lifted the first section with his comb, and cut away several inches.
A thick lock of brown hair fell onto the cape.
Helen watched in the mirror.
“Good heavens. You’re not wasting any time.”
“That’s what you came here for.”
Frank continued working around the back, establishing a clean, even line just below the ears.
At the middle chair, Walter was preparing to cut the hair of a woman named Margaret, who had arrived with long blonde hair reaching halfway down her back.
Margaret was twenty-nine, married, and had two children. Her husband had entered military service, and she had recently started working at Nash.
Walter gathered her hair behind her shoulders.
“You’re certain about this?”
“Absolutely. My husband always liked it long, but he’s not the one trying to keep it out of machinery twelve hours a day.”
One of the waiting women laughed.
“Besides, when he comes home, he can get used to it.”
Margaret nodded.
“That’s exactly what I told him in my last letter.”
Walter smiled and began cutting.
At Eddie’s chair, a twenty-eight-year-old woman named Clara was already having the sides of her hair shortened with hand-operated clippers.
The metallic clicking sound filled the shop.
Clara tilted her head slightly as Eddie guided the clippers upward from her neckline.
“Don’t leave all that hair hanging over my ears,” she told him.
“You want them completely uncovered?”
“That’s right. I want it short.”
Eddie changed his angle and worked carefully around her right ear, removing the heavy hair that had previously covered it.
Clara watched several inches fall onto the cape.
“Now that’s more like it.”
The women waiting along the wall were talking among themselves.
One had brought a newspaper. Another was examining the photographs hanging behind Frank’s chair.
Most of those pictures showed Frank during his Navy years, including several photographs taken when he had been boxing.
But there was another photograph that caught her attention.
It showed a much younger Frank standing beside a stripped-down motorcycle.
The machine had narrow tires, low handlebars, a large V-twin engine, and almost nothing resembling the equipment found on an ordinary road motorcycle.
The woman leaned closer.
“Frank, is that you?”
Frank glanced toward the wall.
“Which picture?”
“The one with the motorcycle.”
“Sure is.”
“What kind of motorcycle is that?”
“Excelsior.”
She studied the photograph.
“Looks like a racing machine.”
“That’s because it is.”
Eddie looked up from Clara’s haircut.
“Now you’ve done it, Frank.”
Frank chuckled.
“Done what?”
“You’ve got them asking about your racing days.”
Helen turned slightly in the chair.
“Your racing days?”
Frank gently straightened her head.
“Keep looking forward, Helen, unless you want one side shorter than the other.”
The women laughed.
But their curiosity had been awakened.
“You used to race motorcycles?” Margaret asked from Walter’s chair.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Where?”
“Milwaukee. Chicago. Wherever there was a race worth entering and I could manage to get there.”
“On that motorcycle?”
“On my Excelsior.”
Clara raised her eyebrows.
“Well, now, that’s something you never told us.”
Frank continued cutting Helen’s hair.
“Nobody ever asked.”
The Milwaukee Motordrome
Frank worked his scissors along Helen’s left side, lifting the heavy hair with his comb and trimming it until it blended into the shorter back.
“Milwaukee had a wooden racing track,” he explained. “They called it the Motordrome. Opened back in 1913.”
“A wooden track?” Helen asked.
“Entirely wooden. Boards laid side by side, all the way around.”
“Like a bicycle track?”
“Something like that, except they built it for motorcycles, and the banking was something you had to see to believe.”
Eddie stopped clipping for a moment.
“Fifty-five degrees, wasn’t it?”
“About that.”
Margaret looked astonished.
“Fifty-five degrees? That’s more than halfway to straight up!”
Frank nodded.
“Exactly. When you got into those turns, it felt like you were riding up the side of a building.”
He paused to comb Helen’s hair.
“At speed, the motorcycle would hold against the banking. But you couldn’t afford to hesitate. And if something went wrong, there wasn’t much room for forgiveness.”
“How fast did you go?” Clara asked.
“Fast enough that you didn’t spend much time looking at the scenery.”
“That’s not an answer,” she replied.
Frank laughed.
“Those racing twins could run well beyond anything you’d want to attempt on a public road. The fastest men were chasing a hundred miles an hour, and some were doing better than that on the right tracks.”
Helen stared at him in the mirror.
“A hundred miles an hour? On a motorcycle?”
“Some of them, yes.”
“With wooden boards underneath you?”
“That’s right.”
“And what happened if you fell?”
Frank’s expression became more serious.
“Nothing good.”
The shop grew quieter.
“Those tracks were dangerous. Boards could work loose. Tires could fail. Engines could seize. And when you were riding close to other men at those speeds, one mistake could take several riders down.”
He resumed cutting.
“I saw enough of that to understand why some men decided the prize money wasn’t worth the risk.”
“Did you ever crash?” Margaret asked.
“Had a few spills. Nothing that kept me out of this chair permanently.”
“You’re lucky,” Helen said.
Frank nodded.
“I know it.”
Chicago’s Wooden Wall
Walter had now cut most of Margaret’s long hair away.
Thick blonde locks lay across the cape and around the base of his chair.
He combed the remaining hair down over her ears, checked the length, and began shaping it into a short bob.
“Frank, didn’t you race down in Chicago too?”
“Sure did. Riverview had a Motordrome of its own.”
Eddie nodded.
“That one was about forty-five degrees, wasn’t it?”
“That’s what I remember. Still plenty steep.”
Frank explained how Chicago’s Riverview amusement park had once operated a wooden motorcycle racing track, where riders competed on a steeply banked oval.
“It was a little longer than Milwaukee’s,” he said. “But it was still a small track. You were in the turns almost as soon as you came out of them.”
Helen looked interested.
“So which one did you like better?”
Frank considered the question.
“Milwaukee was closer to home. Chicago drew some serious riders. But neither was a place where you could afford to get careless.”
“Why did you stop racing?” she asked.
Frank continued cutting.
“Several reasons. The tracks were dangerous. Some of those places didn’t last very long. And I had a business to run.”
He glanced around the shop.
“Hard to cut hair when you’ve got both arms in splints.”
That brought another round of laughter.
Walter shook his head.
“Not to mention that we’d have to do all your work.”
“That’s probably what worried me most,” Frank replied.
The Flying Merkel
Eddie finished clipping Clara’s neckline and began blending the shorter hair around her temples.
He worked the hand clippers upward, stopping just below the longer hair on top, then switched to scissors and comb.
“Speaking of racing motorcycles,” Eddie said, “I’ve been thinking about getting mine back onto a track.”
Frank looked over.
“That Flying Merkel of yours?”
“That’s the one.”
Clara looked up.
“Flying Merkel? What on earth is that?”
“A motorcycle,” Eddie answered.
“Well, I gathered that much.”
“It’s a racing twin. Merkel started building motorcycles right here in Milwaukee.”
That caught the women’s attention.
“Milwaukee?” Helen repeated.
“That’s right,” Frank said. “Joseph Merkel started building motorcycles there years ago. Fine machines, too.”
Eddie nodded enthusiastically.
“The early ones were made in Milwaukee. The business moved afterward, and eventually the Flying Merkels were being built in Ohio.”
Frank added, “Merkel was an inventive fellow. He experimented with suspension, engine design, and all sorts of improvements when a lot of manufacturers were still figuring out how to build a reliable motorcycle.”
Eddie smiled.
“And mine is one of the racing machines.”
Clara examined him in the mirror.
“You’re telling me you own one of those things too?”
“Sure do.”
“And you want to race it?”
“That’s the idea.”
Walter laughed.
“These women came in here for haircuts, and they’re finding out they’ve got two motorcycle racers working on them.”
“One motorcycle racer,” Frank corrected. “Eddie hasn’t done much racing yet.”
Eddie grinned.
“That’s going to change.”
Frank raised an eyebrow.
“Provided you learn to keep that machine running.”
“There’s nothing wrong with my Merkel.”
“Then why were you working on the magneto last Sunday?”
“Because I wanted it working better.”
Frank laughed.
“That’s what every motorcycle owner says when something breaks.”
The Excelsior Racing Twin
Helen’s haircut was nearly finished.
Frank combed the top forward, shortened the heavy fringe, and then swept it to one side.
The finished cut was neat and practical, with the hair falling just over the tops of her ears and the back shaped closely against her neck.
But Helen was more interested in the motorcycle conversation.
“So, Frank, tell us about your Excelsior.”
Frank smiled.
“Built in Chicago. Schwinn bought the company back in 1911.”
“Schwinn? The bicycle people?”
“The very same.”
Frank explained how Ignaz Schwinn had acquired Excelsior and invested heavily in motorcycle development and racing.
“They weren’t building toys. Excelsior wanted to compete with Indian, Harley-Davidson, and every other manufacturer that thought it could build the fastest motorcycle in America.”
Eddie interrupted.
“And they had some pretty good results.”
“They certainly did.”
Frank described the famous 1912 achievement of Excelsior rider Lee Humiston, who became the first motorcyclist officially credited with exceeding 100 miles per hour.
“A hundred miles an hour,” Margaret repeated.
“On a wooden track,” Frank added.
Walter shook his head.
“People think automobiles are getting fast. These motorcycle fellows were already doing things most automobile drivers wouldn’t dream of.”
Frank explained that his Excelsior racing twin had a V-twin engine of approximately sixty-one cubic inches.
“That’s nearly a thousand cubic centimeters,” he said. “A lot of engine for a machine that doesn’t weigh much.”
“How much horsepower?” Clara asked.
“Depends on the engine and how it’s prepared. Racing engines weren’t all identical. Some were considerably stronger than the ordinary road machines.”
He explained the magneto ignition, the chain drive, and the importance of keeping the engine properly lubricated.
“On those old racing machines, you had to pay attention to the oil. It wasn’t like driving a modern automobile where you just watched a gauge.”
Eddie nodded.
“And those racing motorcycles didn’t have brakes.”
Helen turned around.
“Didn’t have what?”
“Brakes,” Frank repeated.
“You mean they weren’t very good?”
“No. I mean they didn’t have them.”
The entire shop erupted.
“Frank!”
“You’re telling me you rode a motorcycle a hundred miles an hour without brakes?”
Frank laughed.
“I didn’t say I personally rode a hundred miles an hour every time I went out. But yes, those stripped-down board-track racers generally didn’t carry brakes.”
“How did you stop?”
“Shut off the power, let the machine slow, and use whatever room you had. You planned ahead.”
Margaret shook her head.
“And you wonder why you stopped racing.”
Frank grinned.
“Well, I did survive.”
The Women Take Notice
By now, several more women had arrived from the Nash factory.
Frank’s shop had become a gathering place where they could talk freely, smoke cigarettes, and enjoy a little independence after twelve hours of factory work.
One woman, Ruth, had just entered and was removing her coat.
She was thirty-one, married, and had a husband serving in the Army.
She looked around at the women, the cigarettes, and the piles of hair on the floor.
“Good heavens. What have I walked into?”
“A motorcycle racing club,” Helen answered.
Ruth laughed.
“I thought this was a barbershop.”
“It is,” Margaret replied. “But apparently Frank used to race motorcycles, and Eddie wants to start.”
Ruth looked at Frank.
“You raced motorcycles?”
“Once upon a time.”
“Well, isn’t that interesting.”
She took a seat and opened her handbag.
“Mind if I smoke?”
“Not at all,” Frank replied. “Ashtray’s right beside you.”
Ruth lit her cigarette and took a long draw.
“Now, this is something I could get used to. Twelve hours in that factory, and then a place where a woman can sit down, have a cigarette, and hear about handsome men racing motorcycles.”
Walter laughed.
“Careful, Frank. You’re getting yourself a reputation.”
Frank shook his head.
“All I did was cut hair.”
“That’s not all you’re doing,” Helen replied.
She examined her finished haircut in the mirror, turning her head from side to side.
The short brown hair framed her face neatly, with the back following the curve of her neck.
“Oh, I love it.”
Frank brushed the loose clippings from her neck.
“Good. It’ll be a lot easier to manage.”
Helen stood and ran her fingers through the newly shortened hair.
Then she looked at Frank.
“You know, my husband has been away for months, and I haven’t had this much fun in a barbershop in my entire life.”
Ruth smiled.
“That’s because most barbershops don’t have former motorcycle racers working in them.”
“And most don’t let us women smoke,” Margaret added.
Frank shrugged.
“You’re paying customers. I don’t see why you shouldn’t be comfortable.”
One of the women laughed.
“Frank, you’re going to have half the women in Kenosha coming through that door.”
“Then I’d better keep my scissors sharp.”
Seventeen Degrees
Eddie had been waiting for an opportunity to return to the subject of racing.
“Frank, have you heard much about that bigger wooden speedway they built out near Maywood?”
Frank looked up.
“Chicago Speedway Park?”
“That’s the one.”
“Two miles around, if I remember correctly.”
Eddie nodded.
“And the banking isn’t anything like those old Motordromes.”
Frank stopped combing the next customer’s hair.
“How much banking?”
“Seventeen degrees, maybe nineteen. That’s what I’ve heard.”
Frank looked at him.
“Seventeen degrees?”
“That’s right.”
Frank set his comb on the counter.
“Well, now, that’s a different proposition.”
Walter looked over.
“What’s different about it?”
“Everything,” Frank replied.
He explained how the small Motordromes had required extremely steep banking to carry motorcycles through tight turns at high speeds.
“Milwaukee was about fifty-five degrees. Riverview was around forty-five. But a two-mile oval with banking under twenty degrees? That’s an entirely different kind of track.”
Eddie smiled.
“Exactly what I’ve been thinking.”
Frank folded his arms.
“Longer straightaways. Broader turns. You’d still be moving plenty fast, but you wouldn’t be climbing those wooden walls every few seconds.”
Ruth leaned forward.
“Are you thinking about racing again?”
Frank looked toward the photograph on the wall.
“I hadn’t been.”
“Until now?” Helen asked.
Frank smiled slightly.
“Until now.”
Eddie grinned.
“I told you that track would interest him.”
Frank shook his head.
“Don’t get ahead of yourself. A gentler bank doesn’t make racing harmless. At those speeds, a loose board or a broken tire can still kill you.”
“But you’d consider it?” Eddie pressed.
Frank thought for a moment.
“I’d consider taking a look at the place. And I’d want to know whether they’re actually running motorcycle races there.”
“Then we ought to go down.”
“We might.”
Eddie’s grin widened.
“And we could bring the motorcycles.”
Frank laughed.
“Now you’re spending my money.”
An Invitation from the Ladies
Walter finished Margaret’s haircut, trimming the last uneven strands around her ears.
He combed the short blonde hair forward, checked the back with a hand mirror, and brushed away the loose clippings.
Margaret examined herself.
“Oh, that’s wonderful.”
Her long hair was gone, replaced by a neat bob that ended just below her ears, with the neckline carefully shaped.
“I should have done this months ago.”
Walter removed the cape.
“Well, you won’t have to worry about pinning it up tomorrow morning.”
Margaret stood and joined the other women.
Ruth was now sitting in Walter’s chair, preparing to have her own hair shortened.
“Frank,” Helen said, “if you and Eddie go racing in Chicago, can we come along?”
Frank looked surprised.
“You ladies want to watch motorcycle racing?”
“Why wouldn’t we?”
“Because it’s loud, dirty, dangerous, and not exactly a fashionable afternoon outing.”
Margaret laughed.
“Frank, we work twelve hours a day in an automobile factory. You think we’re frightened of noise and dirt?”
That brought applause from several women.
Ruth nodded.
“And some of us haven’t had a proper outing since our husbands went away.”
Clara added, “Besides, if we’re going to listen to you two talk about these motorcycles every time we get our hair cut, we might as well see them.”
Frank laughed.
“Fair enough.”
Helen stepped closer.
“Would you really race again?”
Frank glanced toward the old photograph.
“Maybe. I’m thirty-five, not eighty-five.”
“Well, you certainly don’t look eighty-five,” Margaret replied.
“That’s because Walter hasn’t been cutting my hair.”
Walter looked up.
“Keep talking, Frank, and I’ll start charging you double.”
The women laughed again.
The Excelsior in the Barn
As the evening continued, Frank started another haircut.
A thirty-two-year-old woman named Alice had requested a particularly short style.
She had thick dark hair that reached her shoulders, and she wanted it cut above her ears with the back tapered closely.
Frank fastened the cape, dampened her hair, and combed it straight down.
“You’re certain you want it that short?”
“Absolutely. I’ve been watching the other women coming out of here, and I want something I can wash, comb, and forget about.”
Frank began by cutting away the length at the back.
The scissors made a steady metallic sound as thick sections fell onto the cape.
He worked carefully around her right ear, folding it forward with his fingers while trimming the hair close.
Then he repeated the process on the left side.
Alice watched in the mirror as her ears gradually emerged from beneath the dark hair.
“That’s quite a change.”
“It certainly is.”
Frank picked up his hand clippers and began tapering the neckline.
The clippers clicked steadily as he guided them upward, removing the heavier hair at the base of her neck.
“Frank,” Alice asked, “where do you keep that Excelsior?”
“Out at my barn.”
“You still have it?”
“Of course.”
“Does it run?”
Frank hesitated.
“It ran the last time I put it away.”
Eddie laughed.
“That doesn’t mean it runs now.”
“No, it doesn’t.”
Frank continued tapering Alice’s neckline.
“I’d have to go through the engine, check the valves, clean the fuel system, inspect the magneto, and make certain the wheels and tires are sound.”
“Sounds like quite a job,” Alice said.
“Not really. Not if you know what you’re doing.”
Eddie looked interested.
“I could bring my Merkel over and we could work on them together.”
Frank nodded.
“That’s not a bad idea.”
Walter glanced over.
“You two are going to spend all Sunday playing with motorcycles, aren’t you?”
“Probably,” Frank answered.
“And who’s going to cut the grass?”
Frank grinned.
“That’s why I bought a place with a barn.”
More Than a Barber
By nine-thirty, the shop was still lively.
Hair covered the floor beneath all three chairs.
The women had been transformed from factory workers with long, cumbersome hairstyles into customers sporting neat bobs, closely trimmed necklines, and practical short cuts.
Some had chosen to leave their ears partly covered. Others had insisted on having them completely exposed.
Walter was finishing Ruth’s haircut, carefully trimming the hair at the nape of her neck.
Eddie was cutting another woman’s hair with his hand clippers, blending the sides into a longer top.
Frank was putting the finishing touches on Alice’s short style.
The conversation had returned to motorcycles.
“Frank,” Ruth asked, “did your wife ever watch you race?”
Frank smiled.
“She knew I raced.”
“Did she approve?”
“She approved of me coming home in one piece.”
The women laughed.
“Smart woman,” Margaret said.
Frank brushed the clippings from Alice’s neck.
“She wasn’t wrong.”
Helen leaned against the counter.
“You know, Frank, there’s something rather exciting about a man who has done all these things.”
Frank raised an eyebrow.
“What things?”
“Well, you were in the Navy. You boxed. You raced motorcycles. You own this business. And you’ve got that beautiful Hudson automobile.”
“Don’t forget he cuts hair,” Walter added.
“Yes,” Helen replied, “and he cuts hair.”
Ruth took another drag from her cigarette.
“Most of the men we know are either working themselves half to death or serving overseas. It’s nice to hear about something other than the war for a change.”
For a moment, Frank’s expression softened.
He understood what she meant.
These women were working long hours, raising families, and carrying responsibilities that had once been shared with husbands, brothers, and fathers.
The war had given them opportunities, but it had also left many of them lonely.
“Well,” Frank said, “there’s nothing wrong with having something to look forward to.”
Helen smiled.
“Especially if it involves a handsome barber riding a racing motorcycle.”
Frank shook his head.
“You ladies are going to get me into trouble.”
A Decision Before Closing
At ten o’clock, Frank turned the sign on the door.
The last customers were gathering their coats, examining their new haircuts, and making plans to return.
Eddie was sweeping hair from beneath his chair.
Walter was cleaning his clippers.
Frank stood beneath the old racing photograph, looking at the Excelsior he had ridden years earlier.
Eddie approached him.
“You’re thinking about it, aren’t you?”
Frank nodded.
“Maybe.”
“About racing?”
“About the motorcycle.”
Eddie smiled.
“That’s a start.”
Frank looked at the photograph again.
He remembered the thunder of the engines, the smell of hot oil and gasoline, the vibration through the handlebars, and the sensation of climbing the steep wooden banking at Milwaukee.
He remembered the fear, too.
But he also remembered the excitement.
“Seventeen degrees,” he said quietly.
Eddie nodded.
“Seventeen, maybe nineteen.”
Frank folded his arms.
“That’s a lot different from Milwaukee.”
“Sure is.”
“And two miles around.”
“That’s right.”
Frank considered it.
“Well, Sunday morning, you bring that Flying Merkel out to my barn.”
Eddie grinned.
“You mean it?”
“I mean we’ll take a look at both motorcycles. See what kind of condition they’re in.”
“And after that?”
Frank smiled.
“After that, maybe we’ll take a ride down toward Chicago and have a look at this speedway.”
Eddie extended his hand.
Frank shook it.
From near the door, Helen called out.
“Don’t you two forget about us ladies!”
Frank turned.
“What about you?”
“You promised we’d get to watch!”
“I didn’t promise anything.”
Margaret laughed.
“You might as well, Frank. We’re going to keep asking.”
Ruth adjusted her hat over her newly shortened hair.
“And if you do decide to race, I expect we’ll have quite a few women from Nash wanting to see it.”
Frank shook his head.
“Imagine that. I spent years trying to get people interested in motorcycle racing, and all it took was giving women short haircuts.”
The shop erupted in laughter.
The Racer Returns
After the last customer departed, Frank turned out the front lights.
Walter had gone home, and Eddie was preparing to leave.
But Frank remained for another moment.
He walked toward the photograph hanging beside his old Navy boxing pictures.
There he was, several years younger, standing beside his Excelsior racing twin.
The motorcycle had no lights, no unnecessary equipment, and no brakes.
Just a powerful engine, a lightweight frame, two narrow wheels, and a rider willing to trust his life to the machine.
He remembered Milwaukee’s wooden banking rising before him.
He remembered the engines roaring through the turns.
And he remembered how it felt to finish a race, pull off his goggles, and realize he had survived another afternoon.
For years, he had believed those days were behind him.
But now there was a different kind of wooden speedway.
A two-mile oval.
Broader corners.
Less banking.
And perhaps one more opportunity to find out whether he still had the ability to compete.
Frank smiled.
“Well, old girl,” he murmured, looking at the Excelsior in the photograph, “maybe we’re not finished after all.”
He turned out the last light and locked the door.
Sunday morning, he would open the barn.
And for the first time in years, the Excelsior racing twin might once again come to life.

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