(By Kim Bultsma, Fine Lines webmaster and English teacher at Bellevue West High School, Bellevue, NE)

“There’s many a man hath more hair than wit” (William Shakespeare).

Most men hate going to beauty salons. For one thing, salons smell as if hairdressers use their coloring products to wash the floors. And men can’t just walk into a beauty salon and expect a cut within the next 10 minutes. Women are willing to wait for beauty; men want to look good now, when they have the time.

My husband Chris refuses to go anywhere for a haircut except to a barbershop. I couldn’t understand why; I see other guys at the hair salon all the time. During the first two years he lived in Omaha , Nebraska , Chris would drive back to our hometown in South Dakota —some 200 miles away—to get a trim from his barber. When I suggested to Chris that he should make an appointment with my Omaha hairdresser, he promised me with disdain that she would never get it right. “Besides, only metrosexuals go to salons. Real men go to barbers.”

I thought about this, and Chris was right. Most of the guys I saw at the salon were metrosexuals—guys who had their tips done. These guys were fashionable. They were hip. Even though they laughed about metrosexual icon Steven “Cojo” Cojocaru with their friends, these guys earnestly listened to him recap the best—and worst—dressed celebs at the Golden Globes. They recognized the Fab 5 from Queer Eye for the Straight Guy and their queer—but de rigueur—eye for dowdy frumps (a.k.a. real men like my husband).

Chris, on the other hand, doesn’t fit the metrosexual bill. He’s more likely to have a subscription to Handyman magazine and watch old reruns of Home Improvement. Chris has even had the same haircut—short and parted on one side—since I knew him in high school…15 years ago. And, for certain, he wouldn’t be caught dead with highlights or styling products other than his staple: Suave hairspray. Regardless, Chris was right: “real” men, like him, just didn’t go to salons. And I needed to know why.

The purchase of our first house forced Chris to take a new path to work. Driving home one afternoon, he noticed a square elfin building with the familiar red, white, and blue pole painted on its sign. Immediately he decided to stop by for a trim the next day. I worried: would he soon step too far outside his hair comfort level? I didn’t know what to expect. A flattop? A crew cut? Or maybe Ivy League, like the one on Floyd Lawson’s Haircut Chart on the Andy Griffith Show. Chris has such thick hair that a slightly trivial scissoring error could result in a white boy’s afro. There was simply nothing to do but nervously wait for him to open the door.

“Hi. I need to take a shower. I have all these little hairs rubbing between my shirt and my neck.” With that, Chris lightly jogged up the stairs.

I yelled after him. “Hey, how did the haircut go? I made an appointment with my hairdresser in case we need to get it fixed.” He hesitated long enough for me to absorb his image: short and parted—just how he liked it. Relief. “Did he get your sideburns right?” He moved his head from side to side as I inspected. I walked around him, analyzing the straightness at the back.

“Yeah, this guy’s great! This may be even better than back home,” he said with childlike excitement, as if he had just received his very first haircut. “He even got the tapering right.”

Tapering? I fought to define this barbershop lingo. I had my stylist add a few layers to my hair, but tapering? It was a foreign term from a foreign world. I couldn’t help myself: why was Chris so vested in going to the barbershop for a cut? And if barbershops are so masculine, why are they losing their male power, becoming an antiquated relic of yesteryear? I already knew the truth: the barbershop is dying. Since companies who specialize in hair products don’t manufacture nearly the amount of barber supplies they used to, it’s more difficult for barbers to purchase genuine equipment for their businesses. I heard even the chairs are hard to come by—something about the difficulty of doing a hot-towel shave when your chair doesn’t recline. But I figured there must be more to it than hair tonics and reclining chairs.

The next time Chris needed to get a haircut was on his day off, and I saw my chance: I’d go with him. I would find the meaning of a business on the verge of extinction. The picture came to me: a woman entering the forbidden labyrinth of male-only commerce. Asking if I might tag along, Chris gave me the distinct impression that my presence wouldn’t be necessary. I wouldn’t have any fun. He was just getting his hair cut. After a string of “um” and “er” noises, he folded.

I remembered a friend of mine telling me once that a couple of guys had exclusive rights for inventing the comb-over. On December 23, 1975, Frank J. Smith and Donald J. Smith filed Patent #4,022,227 with the United States Patent and Trademark Office. Its name: Method of concealing partial baldness. Its claim: to help the poor guy—who can’t afford hair transplants or wigs—feel good about himself with a full head of hair. Its fame: Donald Trump. As Chris drove us to the barbershop, I urgently prayed for the exclusive opportunity to watch someone cut a comb-over.

Bob Beck’s Barbery is a square red brick building located on a busy highway in northern Omaha . The screen door, centered on the front of the building, is flanked by two large picture windows for optimal viewing. As he pulled into the parking lot at the barbershop’s rear, Chris desperately fumbled with his words: “You can wait in the car if you want.” As if I’d be offended by the swimsuit calendar. I bounced out of the car.

I began to think that I was making Chris somewhat uncomfortable—that my female presence in Bob Beck’s Barbery would simply embarrass him from his male existence. I wondered if he was experiencing P.H.S., or pre-haircut syndrome. P.H.S. comes about once a month when men try to get a haircut and their wives, with their already bizarre raison d’être, obsess about tagging along or make them go to their salon for a “change.” I made a mental note to ask him about that later.

Once in the front door, nothing seemed remarkable about the barbershop. Bob greeted us warmly. He’s probably in his fifties, a little over six feet tall, and working on a small gut. Dressed in a button-up shirt and khakis, he smiled and said hello to me. Bob was the only barber there; the other chair sat empty. Bob began trimming a young high school boy, and I quietly sat down in the chairs beneath the right window and took mental notes. There was no swimsuit calendar, but Bob did have a Norman Rockwell calendar hanging on the wall. To my right was an entertainment center with a small television on top. That day it was tuned to CNBC, the volume just loud enough to hear above the buzzing whir of clippers. Where the TV would usually sit, there was a small college refrigerator, a black placard with “POP 50¢” in the upper right corner. I asked Chris if I could have one. He sighed, saying in Bob’s direction, “We’re gonna grab a soda and I’ll pay for it with my cut.” Bob nodded his head, mumbling something about that being fine, and I grabbed an ice cold Sprite. Eyes watering, I coughed after the first stinging drink. Wrong pipe. Chris rolled his eyes. Bob swept the high school boy’s hair aside and motioned Chris to the chair.

Chris once told me that barbers know a little bit about everything, something he calls the “barbershop philosophy.” According to Chris, barbers can have intelligent conversations with anyone—from pharmacists to tool and die workers—about any subject. On this occasion, we asked Bob about the curling stone he had sitting on the counter. The smile, which hadn’t left his face, grew.

Bob explained that he and his wife would be traveling to watch their daughter curl in the 2002 Women’s National Curling Championships. I thought about commenting that I didn’t realize hair curling was some sort of Olympic sport, but Chris’s red face and defiant stare made me second guess myself. Apparently, the entire Beck family used to curl when Ak-sar-ben was still in operation here in Omaha . After it closed, Bob’s daughter Katie decided to attend college at the University of Minnesota-Twin Cities so she could join the St. Paul Curling Club. It just sounded too good to be true—attending the “national” championships for hair curling, even joining some sort of hair curling club. I had to naively ask what curling was.

Bob enlightened us, saying, “It began in Scotland in the early 1500s. Back then, curlers used rocks weighing between five and seven pounds. The ones they use today are smooth, granite stones that are something like 42 pounds.” As he continued, Bob stopped trimming every stroke or two to emphasize his words with his hands, both scissors and comb in the right. “Curlers use brooms to sweep the ice, which makes the stones travel further on a path made by the sweepers. They have to get the stones on these bulls-eyes to get points.”

“Ohhh. So it’s like frozen shuffleboard with bulls-eyed targets on ice instead of triangles on wooden floors?” Chris’s eyes squinched to a glare, but Bob agreed with me, smiling. They say you learn something new everyday. I just didn’t think I’d learn my new thing for the day at a barbershop.

While he talked, I noticed the different magazines in the magazine rack. Obviously aimed toward a specific audience, they sported titles like Motorcyclist, Hot Rod, Wood, and National Geographic. Chris forgot to mention an important aspect of the barbershop philosophy: barbers know something about everything…related to men. This was one of the remaining places where men could go to converse about “real men” stuff. Although the beauty salon was no longer a place for women only—the metrosexuals had invaded that—women still had places like Pampered Chef and purse parties to frequent. Men don’t have that kind of setting to just be men (Women have even invaded Home Depot—I’ll admit my guilty pleasure in going there.), except for, maybe, the Sears tool department and barbershops. Bob’s lack of Ladies Home Journal or Cosmo didn’t upset me. But I believed that someday, from a safe distance, I could make a valid contribution to the barbershop philosophy.

At the end of Chris’s haircut, Bob flipped a switch and vacuumed my husband’s head. I was mortified; it reminded me of a Flowbee. But this wasn’t a Flowbee, where you can actually cut your hair with a vacuum. Bob used a real vacuum; Chris said the suction was enough to bruise skin. I recalled recommending a Flowbee to Chris once. I emailed the website to him, explaining that we should look into this, if not for ourselves then for our two Cocker Spaniels.

The Flowbee website shows a picture of a kid who has hair just like Chris’s. Multiplying and carrying the ones, I thought of the money we could save. Since Flowbees work with any vacuum, we would not have to buy the Flowbee Super Mini Vac; we could use our 8 amp ShopVac. I never understood the value of the ShopVac anyway; I figured the Flowbee would help us get our money’s worth. Since Flowbee costs an equivalent to six of Chris’s haircuts (and just one of mine, he pointed out), our grooming bills would become virtually nonexistent. I pointed Chris toward the Flowbee website’s testimonials section, riddled with poor grammar and awful spelling. “Ed” was about to shave his head: “Then I saw a program that had your product on it, not an infomershal.” It changed Ed’s life.

But Chris reminded me how much we both hate to vacuum. He also commented about how much our dogs don’t like the vacuum either. “Besides,” he pointed out, “by going to the barbershop, I’m supporting an American small business.” I couldn’t argue with that. Flowbee wasn’t going to change our lives, so Bob’s vacuum would have to do.

The second time I went to Bob’s with Chris we had to wait for three other men to get their hair cut. One fellow, Jake, was reading the paper. He looked like he could use a cut, but we’d soon discover that he was just there to read the paper. As an older gentleman walked in, Jake slowly yelled out, “Well, I’ll be DAMNED! How the hell are ya, Jerry?” At this point, Jake and Jerry did the “gentlemen’s hug”: as they shook hands, they used their free arms to loudly slap each other on the back. I think Jerry winced.

Jake and Jerry immediately took the opportunity to catch up on old times. I learned that Jake was a mechanic who worked on semis. Recently, someone broke into his place of employment and stole almost all of his tools. Since most men fidget in the uncomfortable silence that my female presence creates at the barbershop, I camouflaged my eavesdropping by pretending to read my book. By this time, Chris was in the chair and because he didn’t have his glasses on, he couldn’t see what I was up to.

I nonchalantly walked over to the fridge for my usual Sprite. Jake was explaining that since his tools were stolen at someone else’s business, they weren’t covered under his personal insurance. I was stunned: I hadn’t realized that mechanics bought their own tools. Then I remembered a friend who once told me that while on a trip to Colorado , her Honda broke down. She called the local mechanic who said that the guy with the metric tools was on vacation for a week and took his tools home with him. She had to rent a car for the rest of the trip, leaving her car on the side of the road until the metric guy returned to work.

I took another swig of Sprite, and Jake went on, explaining that he had about $20,000 in tools stolen. I choked. And everything in the barbershop came to an abrupt halt. Wiping my nose on my sweatshirt, I innocently waved at the guys. This time Chris’s squint was even squintier. Luckily for me, Jake continued, saying that his employer’s insurance covered the theft and he slapped the Sears credit card down for Jake. Bob turned on the vacuum, and I nearly dropped my Sprite. Chris sighed.

I wondered: just how many mechanic tools can $20,000 buy? Chris said that for your basic Snap-on ratchet, you’d pay $50. Get that same ratchet in a handy General Service Metric Starter Set for $212.30. “Of course, it totally depends on what brand you’re partial to,” Chris explained. But none of that mattered to me. As he rambled on about a 189-Piece Craftsman Laser Etched Mechanics Tool Set with a Bonus Gold Socket Set at Sears for $199.99 (at 30.5 pounds, thank God it’s guaranteed forever and comes in a plastic case), I thought about the twenty grand. I could buy a lot of clothes with that. Thinking about that groovy pair of Kenneth Cole Dance with Me shoes I had my eye on, I drifted away to my next shopping excursion.

When I came to, Chris was saying, “My all-time favorite is the Dremel Variable Speed MultiPro Super Kit with a 77-Piece Accessory Kit. Honey, it’s a measly $150. It even has the Dremel Chuck.” I began to contemplate the Chuck: was it developed for those times you get angry and feel the need to throw things? But eventually I realized that the tools and clothes, of course, don’t compare to the price of equipment a barber buys for his barbershop. Since Bob Beck’s Barbery was recently broken into, Bob had to replace a few amenities. The thieves stole razors and clippers, amongst other things like the mysterious blue liquid for combs. In order for Bob to taper Chris’s hair, he’d have to order the Wahl Taper Wide, with an adjustable taper lever and high-precision extra wide blades, for $70. And to brush off those little hairs that get between Chris’s neck and shirt, Bob would pay $13 for the Marvy Goathair Standup Neck Duster #75. A barber has his own cutting tools, whereas a salon usually provides the equipment for its stylists. Who wouldn’t want to pay $11 for a barbershop cut versus $30 at most salons?

I couldn’t quite pinpoint what Bob’s barbershop was missing until I noticed the sign on the east side of the building. “Bob Beck’s Barbery” in red, white, and blue paint on a wooden sign with a picture of the barber’s pole along the right side. And then it hit me: Bob’s barbershop doesn’t have a real barber’s pole. I often wondered about these poles, thinking they were of some historical significance, some sort of American patriotic symbol. But I discovered later that the barber pole represented bloodletting.

In the late 18th century, bloodletting was a standard medical treatment. George Washington even died of a throat infection when he had nine pints of blood drained in 24 hours. Almost a century later, people realized that bloodletting was a joke, or at least a job fit for a surgeon. Until then, barbers performed these procedures. Outside their shops hung a pole with two bandages around it: one represented the bandages wrapped around the arm before bleeding, the other for binding the arm afterwards. I considered the implausibility of going to the barbershop for a haircut and some blood spilling for my sore throat. “Just throw that on my tab with the Sprite, Bob.” Then I’d lose consciousness. It certainly gave new meaning to being “nicked” at the barbershop.

Today’s barber pole, however, has red, white, and blue stripes that endlessly travel up a spiraling cylinder. When barbers and surgeons were separated into two sects in 1745, the barbers left the union with the pole to identify themselves as a new, independent entity. Red blood, white bandages, blue veins. I could easily see its discombobulation with the American flag. So the pole spins because it’s supposed to emulate how the bandages would twist in the wind while hanging out to dry. The pole: the stick customers squeezed to enlarge their veins. Salons don’t have a physical identifier like the barber’s pole for their business. Customers just follow their noses to the scents of fingernail polish and coloring product.

Where was Bob’s barber pole? Bob began, “Humph. It was stolen last winter.” I didn’t bother asking Bob why he hadn’t yet replaced it; I had already done my homework. A two-foot barber’s pole that doesn’t rotate and has no lights costs about $350. You could go all out with a 47″ revolving barber’s pole with a little globe on top for $780. At $11 a cut, Bob would need to open shop another day of the week for a few months to foot the bill. The painted pole on his sign would have to do.

I notice more barbershops around Omaha now. Up the road from our house is the Chop Shop, where you can get a cold one while you wait for a trim. At my salon, I’m lucky to get lukewarm water. And the last thing women want to do at a salon is hang out and talk; they’ve already been there for at least an hour just getting a haircut. Women have places to go, making the salon an emblem for our fast-paced culture. Barbershops, however, have a different atmosphere, an unusual yet conventional ambiance. Men can leisurely loiter at the barbershop—talk with men they don’t know, catch up on the news. Men will want their place back.

As Chris paid for the cut and my soda, an elderly gentleman stepped up to the chair. As he sat down, Bob placed the tissue paper around his neck and fluffed the cape around him, as if he were a bullfighter provoking his next victim. As the cape slowly drifted onto the man’s body, I shot a double take at the old man sitting in the chair: he had a comb-over. I was opening my mouth to ask how Bob was going to cut that when Chris pushed me out the door. “Oh, come on, Chris. You can’t possibly tell me that you don’t wanna know how he’s gonna do that!” Opening the car door for me, Chris smiled.

As we pulled away, I looked back at Bob’s sign. In that moment, I concluded that Bob’s painted barber’s pole signified more than just barbershop history. It foretold the future, too.