Tonsorial.

The red and white helix we call the barber pole is medieval. The original version had a brass basin on top, for leeches, and another beneath, to collect your blood. Ah, to live in a time when a man could get a shave & haircut, have surgery, get a tooth extracted, and, assuming that he had enough blood left, indulge himself in a bloodletting - all in the same barber’s chair. Your bandages would be hung on the pole to dry and twist in the wind in a lurid spiral that became an universal trademark, the red stripe signifying your blood stains, the white stripe promoting the barber's clean bandages. (The blue stripe was added later, in America, for obvious patriotic reasons.)

Redundancies.

I love everything about Park Slope Barber & Hair. I used to chuckle over the redundant name, but let's be generous and call it a nod to tradition. None of the old guys who work there know exactly how long it's been a barber shop. I would guess ever since the building went up, which is over a hundred years ago. It still has its wonderful, original fixtures in white enamel. And beautiful dark woodwork. And the barber's chair is exactly what I remember from my childhood, I can still see the metal gridwork in the swiveling footrest.

It's less than five minutes from home, down Seventh Avenue. I went the day before Christmas Eve, and the place was festooned in tinsel. There was an ornament scotch-taped more or less in the center of each large mirror. In the back by the vintage cash register was a full bar of holiday libations. A full bar. Whiskies, cheap gin, vermouth, jug wine, etc. It was before noon, I declined.

Owner Angelo likes his do-wop. He plays it often, and often sings along. He has a lovely tenor, with a breathy vibrato. The problem is that as he snips away, his mouth drifts unnervingly close to either of my ears. I'm not saying it's deliberate. And he's not a belter, he sings softly, but he really should save it for the guys who like do-wop. "..cause I only have eyes for yoooou.." And I really should have taken that drink.

A mother was sitting behind me on the bench. Her seven year-old son was getting a haircut in the chair to my right. He seemed rather calm. I was always quietly disturbed when I was taken to the barbershop at his age. I was usually shanghaied by my father, who knew I hated Frank's Barber Shop. I hated the throwaway paper strip Frank clipped around my neck. He couldn't just let the snipped hairs fall down my shirt, like Angelo does? I hated the shaving foam, and I really hated straight razor that he scrrrrraped near to my ear. I had no whiskers, just a bit of peach fuzz, but he always straight-edged the bottom of my little sideburn. Medieval rituals die hard.

And I hated sitting still. "Don't fidget." Frank would whack me on the back of the head with two fingers for fidgeting. Frank is the only person ever allowed by my father to hit me. Well, it wasn't exactly hitting, but it hurt a little. My father would watch and shoot the breeze with Frank, then we switched places, it would be my turn to watch my father in the chair. The second and third barbers weren't good enough, we both waited for Frank, even if their chairs were empty.

No girls allowed.

Never, ever did I see a woman set foot in Frank's. Smoking? Sure. Cussing? Absolutely. But a mother watching the ritual? Not on a bet. When I needed a haircut, which was every three to four weeks, never longer, and my father was too busy to take me, my mother would drop me off. I would enter slowly, all alone, five dollar bill folded in my pocket. Geeze, talk about scary.

It was at one of those solo drop-offs that I saw a man I shall never forget. He wore dark glasses. He reeked of booze, I smelled it from the door. He was sitting in Frank's chair, figdeting. Sort of. Actually, his movements were sporadic and rather intense, but purposeful, and played for effect, as if poised to high-tail it out of there, should the wrong set of eyes land on him. I can still see his face, strangely handsome, and it reminds me of a wolf.

"What are you staring at?" I must have looked terrified, because Frank took me by the hand, his scissors in the other, and sat me in the bench. He resumed his snipping. I stared.

"She thinks she's got a god-damned gift from god between her legs. Hah!"

"Hey, hey, there's kids in here." There was no one else in the room. How strange it felt to be pluralized.

He bolted upright. "I could knock you cold with one swing, Frank. You know that, don't you?"

"Yeah, yeah. I've seen it." Frank winked at me. I tried to wink back, but my left eye seemed paralyzed.

"And you'll see it again if..."

With that, he fell asleep. Frank chuckled. I tried to chuckle, but my throat was dry.

"Did you ever see a close shave?"

I shook my head no. Frank grabbed his straight razor and, with mock-delicacy, shaved the guy. Dry. No shaving foam, just sharp little scrapes, his pinkie extended, working toward the throat. I didn't fidget, I watched in silence until it was finished.

I only have eyes for you.

Frank returned his razor to the sanitizer, then whacked him on the back of the head with two fingers. He bolted upright, blinked about, saw no enemies, and rose from the chair. Frank shook loose his silver hairs from the barber's bib. No money exchanged hands.

The interloper reached the door, then turned back. He stood before me and removed his dark glasses. He had a vertical scar running down his face over his left eyelid, as if someone had tried to blind him with a razor.

"Remember me."

I did. I do. Frank's face has gone fuzzy through the years. When I come into Park Slope Barber & Hair, I have trouble remembering which of the old guys is Angelo. But I will always remember the close shave on that dangerously handsome face.