Pistal01
The afternoon sunlight filtered through the front windows of Frank’s barbershop, illuminating the three old barber chairs that had occupied the same positions for more than half a century.
Frank was sweeping the floor.
A few strands of long brown hair remained beneath the first chair, reminders of the rather unusual customer who had occupied it earlier that afternoon.
At eighty-nine years old, Frank still took considerable pride in keeping his shop clean.
He had just finished gathering the last of the hair when the front door opened.
An elderly woman stepped inside carrying her purse and a small paper bag.
“Afternoon, Frank.”
He looked up.
“Well, good afternoon. You’re getting here a little late today.”
The woman smiled.
“I had a few things to take care of.”
She walked toward the middle barber chair, where she had worked for nearly fifty years.
There had been a time when that chair belonged to one of Frank’s original male barbers.
But during the difficult years following the First World War, the man had gone to work on Frank’s farm property, becoming involved in the machine shop that Frank and Joseph Balistrieri operated.
That had opened a position in the barbershop.
And the woman who eventually took it had an interesting history of her own.
She had once owned a beauty shop in Kenosha.
It had been a respectable little business, employing several women who performed the traditional services expected of a beauty parlor.
But when Nash began hiring women during the war, her employees discovered that factory work paid considerably better.
One by one, they left.
Eventually, she couldn’t keep the business operating.
Frank had offered her a place in his shop.
She had accepted, and the middle chair had been hers ever since.
Now an elderly woman herself, she still enjoyed cutting hair.
She placed her purse beneath the counter and looked toward Frank.
“Anything interesting happen today?”
Frank laughed.
“You might say that.”
“Any customers?”
“Had a young lady in here wanting her entire head shaved.”
The woman raised her eyebrows.
“Completely shaved?”
“Clippers and straight razor. Took every bit of it off.”
“Well, that’s something.”
Frank leaned the broom against the wall.
“Her name was Lydia.”
The woman stopped.
“Lydia? The girl Malcolm Balistrieri was supposed to marry?”
“That’s the one.”
“Oh, Frank.”
“What?”
“Don’t tell me she was in here complaining about Malcolm.”
Frank nodded.
“She wasn’t particularly happy.”
“I wouldn’t imagine she would be.”
“Margaret Balistrieri paid for her haircut. Lydia’s expecting a baby, and she doesn’t think Malcolm is going to do right by her.”
The woman shook her head.
“That family has always been complicated.”
“She’s talking about getting blood testing done after the baby’s born.”
“Well, I can’t blame her.”
Frank sighed.
“I told her Malcolm was a good kid. I still believe that.”
The woman gave him a strange look.
“Frank, you haven’t heard?”
“Heard what?”
She lowered her voice.
“There’s another girl at American Motors.”
Frank frowned.
“What girl?”
“Natasha.”
“Natasha who?”
“That young woman working at the factory. The one who’s been seeing Malcolm.”
Frank stared at her.
“What about her?”
“She’s pregnant.”
For several seconds, Frank said nothing.
Then he slowly sat down in his barber chair.
“You’re telling me Malcolm has gotten another girl pregnant?”
“That’s what they’re saying at the factory.”
“Good Lord.”
The woman folded her arms.
“Now, I don’t know whether it’s all been established, but Natasha is telling people Malcolm’s the father.”
Frank looked toward the photograph of Joseph Balistrieri hanging on the wall.
“I’ve known that boy since he was born.”
“I know you have.”
“I knew his grandfather. I’m his father’s godfather. I’ve watched three generations of that family grow up.”
“And?”
“And I don’t understand what the hell Malcolm is thinking.”
The woman laughed softly.
“Well, Frank, being young doesn’t necessarily mean being sensible.”
“No, I suppose it doesn’t.”
He shook his head.
“Two young women expecting babies, and Malcolm can’t even decide whether he wants to get married.”
“Maybe Anthony ought to stop trying to run the boy’s life.”
Frank looked up.
“That’s exactly what I told Lydia.”
A New American Motors Automobile
The conversation was interrupted by the sound of an automobile pulling up outside.
Frank looked through the window.
A bright new AMC Hornet Sportabout station wagon was easing toward the curb.
“Well, look at that.”
The woman turned.
“What?”
“Brand-new Hornet Sportabout.”
The little station wagon had the clean, modern styling American Motors was promoting for 1971.
Frank walked closer to the window.
“That’s a nice-looking automobile.”
The woman smiled.
“That’s Carol. She works over at American Motors.”
“You know her?”
“She’s been coming to me for years.”
Carol parked the Hornet and stepped out.
She was in her early thirties, wearing slacks and a light blouse. Her dark hair extended several inches below her shoulders.
She looked toward the barbershop window and waved.
A moment later, the bell above the door rang.
“Good afternoon!”
“Hello, Carol,” the woman called from the middle chair.
Frank smiled.
“Nice automobile you’ve got there.”
Carol laughed.
“Thank you. Just bought it.”
“1971 Hornet Sportabout?”
“That’s right.”
“Six-cylinder?”
“Yes. I wanted something practical. Something I could drive to work, take shopping, and still have room for everything.”
Frank nodded approvingly.
“American Motors did a nice job with those.”
Carol smiled.
“Well, considering where I work, I figured I ought to buy one of our own cars.”
The woman motioned toward her chair.
“Come on over, Carol. Ready for your haircut?”
“More than ready.”
Carol sat down in the middle chair.
Frank returned to his own station, but remained close enough to join the conversation.
The Angled Bob
The woman fastened a clean neck strip around Carol’s neck and draped a barber cape over her shoulders.
She lifted Carol’s long hair free of the collar.
“Now, what are we doing today?”
Carol looked into the mirror.
“I want it short.”
“How short?”
“An angled bob. Short in the back, longer toward the front.”
The woman nodded.
“With the back undercut?”
“Absolutely. I don’t want all that weight sitting on my neck.”
She reached behind her head.
“And I want the undercut taken up pretty high.”
Frank smiled from his chair.
“Sounds like the kind of haircut the Nash girls used to ask for.”
Carol laughed.
“Well, I’m an American Motors girl.”
The woman picked up her comb.
“Same factory, different name.”
She carefully sectioned Carol’s hair, clipping the upper layers out of the way.
Then she lowered Carol’s head.
“Chin down, dear.”
Carol complied.
The barber picked up her clippers and switched them on.
A low mechanical buzzing filled the shop.
She began at the center of Carol’s neckline, pushing the clippers upward through the thick hair.
A heavy section fell onto the cape.
She made another pass.
Then another.
The hair at the nape disappeared, leaving a closely clipped undercut.
Carol watched the severed hair fall.
“Oh, that feels better already.”
“We’ve barely started.”
The barber worked toward the left side, then the right, carefully clearing the hair beneath the intended bob line.
She folded Carol’s ears forward and cleaned the areas behind them.
Frank watched for a moment.
“You’re taking that pretty high.”
“That’s what she asked for.”
Carol laughed.
“I work in a hot factory, Frank. I don’t want a blanket of hair hanging down my neck.”
“Can’t argue with that.”
The woman switched off the clippers and brushed away the loose hair.
“Now we’ll get the shape.”
She released the upper sections and combed the hair straight down.
Using her shears, she established a short line across the back, just below the occipital bone.
Snip. Snip. Snip.
Thick sections fell to the floor.
She worked from the center toward the left side, gradually lengthening the cutting line toward Carol’s jaw.
Then she repeated the process on the right.
The shape was becoming obvious.
Very short at the back.
Closely undercut underneath.
Longer, sharply angled sections framing the face.
Carol smiled.
“That’s exactly what I wanted.”
“Wait until I finish it.”
The Supervisor Who Wanted Her Gone
As the barber continued shaping the left side, Carol sighed.
“I wish everything at the factory was going as well as buying that car.”
Frank looked up.
“Something wrong?”
“My supervisor.”
“What about him?”
“He doesn’t like me.”
The woman combed another section forward.
“Why?”
“Because I don’t let him push me around.”
Frank laughed.
“That’ll do it.”
Carol continued.
“He keeps telling me I’m not meeting production. Says I’m slowing everybody else down.”
“Are you?” Frank asked.
“No. I’m meeting the established rate. I’ve checked it with my steward.”
The woman made another careful cut.
“So what’s his problem?”
“He wants me gone. He’s been trying to find some excuse to get rid of me.”
Frank shook his head.
“Sounds familiar.”
Carol looked toward him.
“Really?”
“Oh, yes.”
He settled back into his chair.
“Back when this place was Nash, before the union, the supervisors practically owned the workers.”
The woman nodded.
“I remember those days.”
Frank continued.
“If a supervisor didn’t like you, you could lose your job. Didn’t matter whether you were a good worker. Didn’t matter how long you’d been there.”
Carol frowned.
“They could just fire you?”
“Absolutely.”
Frank pointed toward the factory in the distance.
“Back in 1917, I had a supervisor named Harold Peterson come into this shop. He was furious because some of the women working under him were getting their hair bobbed.”
The woman laughed.
“I remember hearing about Harold.”
Frank smiled.
“He thought he could tell those women what to do even after they left the factory.”
“What happened?”
“I told him to get out of my shop.”
Carol laughed.
“Good for you.”
“Well, he didn’t appreciate it.”
Frank shook his head.
“Those supervisors had far too much control over people’s lives.”
The Year Everything Changed
The barber continued working on Carol’s haircut.
She combed the right side forward, carefully establishing the same angle as the left.
“Frank, wasn’t it 1933 when the Nash workers started organizing?”
“That’s right.”
Frank leaned forward.
“September 1933, they organized under the American Federation of Labor. Federal Labor Union 19008.”
Carol looked surprised.
“You remember the number?”
“Of course I remember the number. That was a big deal in Kenosha.”
He continued.
“November ninth, 1933. Workers in final assembly sat down on the job because they were fed up with the way they were being paid.”
The barber nodded.
“That caused quite a stir.”
“It certainly did.”
Frank continued.
“Then in 1934 they went out on strike. Seven weeks. And in April they got their first written agreement with Nash.”
Carol listened closely.
“What did they get?”
“Collective bargaining, better wages, and seniority protections.”
Frank smiled.
“Before that, a supervisor could get rid of an older worker and replace him with somebody younger just because he felt like it.”
The woman carefully trimmed the hair along Carol’s jawline.
“And now we’ve got a union steward.”
“Exactly,” Frank said.
“In 1935, that old federal union became United Auto Workers Local 72.”
Carol nodded.
“That’s our local.”
“I know it is.”
Frank smiled.
“And I’ll tell you something. Those workers fought hard for the protections you’ve got today.”
Carol looked at her reflection.
“Well, my supervisor might not like me, but he’s going to have to follow the contract.”
“That’s the difference,” Frank replied.
“Doesn’t mean a union can guarantee your job forever. But it means you have representation, a grievance procedure, and somebody who can challenge the company when it isn’t following the rules.”
Carol smiled.
“That’s exactly what my steward told me.”
The Finished Haircut
The barber stepped back and examined Carol’s haircut.
The shape was nearly complete.
She combed the hair down once more, checking the angle on both sides.
Then she picked up her thinning shears and carefully removed some of the weight where the longer upper sections met the short undercut.
“Turn your head a little.”
Carol complied.
The barber made several precise cuts.
Then she used her clippers to clean the neckline and refine the undercut.
Frank watched with approval.
“That’s a nice haircut.”
“Thank you, Frank.”
The woman smiled.
“I’ve had plenty of practice.”
She brushed the loose hair from Carol’s neck and used a hand mirror to show her the back.
Carol’s eyes widened.
“Oh, I love that!”
The undercut was closely clipped, while the upper hair formed a sharply angled bob that grew progressively longer toward her face.
She reached behind her head.
“That’s wonderful.”
“Not too short?”
“Not at all. That’s exactly what I wanted.”
The barber removed the cape.
Carol stood and looked into the large mirror.
“Well, I think this is going to make working at the factory a whole lot more comfortable.”
Frank smiled.
“And it’ll look good driving that new Hornet.”
Carol laughed.
“That too.”
She paid for the haircut and left a generous tip.
“Thank you. I’ll see you in a few weeks.”
“Take care, Carol.”
Frank called after her.
“And keep that Hornet in good shape!”
She laughed as she walked out.
“I will!”
A moment later, the little AMC station wagon started and pulled away.
Eddie Comes Home
Not long after Carol left, the front door opened again.
An elderly man stepped inside.
He was considerably younger than Frank, although he was still approaching eighty.
“Eddie!” Frank called.
“Afternoon, Frank.”
Eddie had been the youngest barber in the shop during the First World War.
Back then, he had been an energetic young man interested in motorcycles, automobiles, and the board-track racing circuits that had once attracted enormous crowds.
Now, at approximately seventy-nine years old, he had considerably more gray hair and a slower walk.
But he still enjoyed stopping by the shop.
He looked around.
“Busy afternoon?”
“Had a few customers,” Frank replied.
The woman smiled.
“And we were just talking about how much things have changed.”
Eddie sat in the third barber chair.
“Well, we’ve certainly seen enough changes.”
Frank nodded.
“From Jeffery to Nash to American Motors.”
“From horses to automobiles,” the woman added.
“From the Great War to another world war,” Eddie said.
Frank smiled.
“And from supervisors being able to fire anybody they wanted to workers having union protection.”
Eddie leaned back.
“That’s a big one.”
Then he paused.
“But I’ll tell you what I think the biggest change has been.”
Frank looked at him.
“What’s that?”
“Social Security.”
Something They Never Thought They Would See
Frank laughed.
“Social Security?”
“Absolutely.”
Eddie looked around the old shop.
“Think about it, Frank. When we started cutting hair, there was no Social Security.”
“That’s true.”
“If a man got old and couldn’t work anymore, what did he have?”
Frank shrugged.
“Whatever money he’d saved.”
“Exactly. Or his family. Or charity. And if he didn’t have any of those things, he was in trouble.”
The woman nodded.
“I remember older people who had to keep working because they had absolutely nothing.”
Eddie continued.
“Then Roosevelt came along.”
Frank smiled.
“Nineteen thirty-five.”
“August fourteenth, 1935,” Eddie replied. “That’s when President Roosevelt signed the Social Security Act.”
The woman looked impressed.
“You remember the exact date?”
“Of course. It was one of the biggest things that ever happened for working people.”
Eddie leaned forward.
“They started collecting Social Security taxes in 1937. And the regular monthly retirement benefits started in January 1940.”
Frank nodded.
“I remember people arguing about it.”
“Everybody argued about it,” Eddie replied.
“Some people said the government couldn’t afford it. Others said it would never last.”
The woman smiled.
“And now here we are.”
Eddie spread his hands.
“Here we are. People getting monthly retirement checks. Widows and children having survivor benefits. Older people having something besides charity to depend on.”
Frank looked thoughtful.
“And now there’s Medicare, too.”
Eddie nodded.
“That started in the sixties. Another thing we never imagined when we were young.”
He looked toward Frank.
“Back in 1917, if you lived long enough to get old, you were pretty much on your own.”
Frank sighed.
“That’s certainly how it felt.”
Eddie continued.
“And don’t forget, Frank, Social Security isn’t just for factory workers. Self-employed people eventually came under it too.”
Frank nodded.
“That’s true.”
“If you’ve paid in enough and have the necessary work credits, you can collect retirement benefits even if you’ve owned your own business.”
Frank smiled faintly.
“Of course, that doesn’t mean the check is going to make me rich.”
“No,” Eddie replied. “But it’s better than nothing.”
The woman nodded.
“And it means you don’t necessarily have to depend entirely on your children.”
Eddie looked toward the window.
“That’s the thing. We grew up in a world where getting old could mean becoming a burden on somebody else.”
He paused.
“Now at least there’s a system that provides some income.”
Frank smiled.
“I suppose you’re right.”
Fifty Years Later
For a few moments, the three elderly barbers sat quietly.
Outside, automobiles moved along the street.
Some were new American Motors products.
Others were older cars, their owners still trying to get a few more years of service out of them.
Frank looked toward the photographs hanging on the wall.
There was the Hudson Super Six.
There were his Navy boxing photographs.
There were pictures of the motorcycles he had raced when board tracks were still popular.
And there were photographs of women who had come into his shop during the First World War to have their long hair cut into short bobs.
The woman in the middle chair followed his gaze.
“You know, Frank, when I first came here, I never imagined I’d still be cutting hair fifty years later.”
Frank smiled.
“Neither did I.”
“I thought losing my beauty shop was the worst thing that could happen to me.”
“And now?”
She looked around.
“Now I think it might have been one of the best things.”
Eddie laughed.
“Well, you certainly ended up working with a couple of interesting fellows.”
“That’s one way of putting it.”
Frank smiled.
“Remember how people reacted when women first started coming in here?”
The woman nodded.
“Some of the men thought it was terrible.”
“And now nobody thinks twice about a woman walking into a barbershop and asking for a short haircut.”
She laughed.
“Or a man having a woman cut his hair.”
Frank nodded.
“Things change.”
Eddie looked toward the street.
“And sometimes they change for the better.”
He paused.
“Think about what we’ve seen. Workers getting union representation. Social Security. Medicare. Women getting more opportunities in the factories. Automobiles becoming something ordinary families can afford.”
Frank smiled.
“And better racing cars.”
Eddie laughed.
“You would have to bring racing into it.”
“Of course.”
The woman shook her head.
“You’re eighty-nine years old, Frank. When are you going to stop racing?”
“When I stop winning.”
Eddie laughed.
“Then I suppose you’ll never retire.”
Frank leaned back in his chair.
“Maybe not.”
A Different Kind of Future
The conversation eventually returned to Malcolm Balistrieri.
Frank looked toward the photograph of Joseph.
“I just hope that boy figures out what he’s doing.”
The woman nodded.
“With two young women possibly expecting his children, he’d better figure it out quickly.”
Eddie looked surprised.
“Two?”
Frank shook his head.
“Don’t ask.”
Eddie laughed.
“Well, I suppose some things never change.”
Frank smiled.
“No. Young people still make mistakes.”
“But they have opportunities we never had,” Eddie replied.
“That’s true.”
Eddie looked around the shop.
“When we were young, we didn’t have much protection. No Social Security. No Medicare. Factory workers had almost no say in how they were treated.”
He paused.
“Now the younger generation has things we couldn’t even imagine.”
The woman smiled.
“And they’re driving better cars.”
Frank laughed.
“That Hornet Sportabout was a nice automobile.”
“You’re still thinking about that car?”
“Of course I am.”
Eddie shook his head.
“Some things definitely never change.”
The three of them laughed.
Outside, the afternoon sun was beginning to lower.
Frank stood and straightened the first barber chair.
The woman began cleaning the middle station.
Eddie remained seated, looking at the old photographs.
After a moment, Frank spoke.
“You know something?”
“What’s that?” Eddie asked.
“When we opened this place, I figured I’d cut hair for a few years, make some money, maybe race motorcycles on the weekends.”
He looked around.
“Never imagined I’d still be standing here in 1971.”
The woman smiled.
“Well, I’m glad you are.”
“So am I,” Eddie said.
Frank nodded.
“And I’m glad things have gotten better for the people working at that factory.”
He looked toward the street.
“Joseph worked hard his whole life. Anthony’s done the same. And now Malcolm has a chance to do something with his life.”
Eddie smiled.
“Maybe he’ll figure it out.”
Frank shrugged.
“Maybe.”
Then the bell above the front door rang.
A young man stepped inside.
“Anybody got time for a haircut?”
Frank smiled.
“Certainly do.”
He motioned toward the first chair.
“Come on over. Have a seat.”
The young man looked around at the three elderly barbers.
“How long have you folks been working here?”
Frank laughed.
“Long enough to remember when that factory was called Jeffery.”
The young man stared.
“You’re kidding.”
Eddie smiled.
“He’s not kidding.”
The woman picked up her comb.
“And between the three of us, we’ve probably forgotten more about cutting hair than most people ever learn.”
Frank fastened a clean cape around the young man’s shoulders.
“Now, how would you like it cut?”
Outside, the traffic continued past the old barbershop.
The factory was still operating.
The union was still representing its workers.
And the three elderly barbers were still doing what they had done for most of their lives.
Only now, after more than half a century, they could look back and recognize something they hadn’t always believed possible.
The world had changed.
And in many ways, it had changed for the better.
