Concerted.

The dear old Park Slope Food Coop was founded by dear old hippies who were not so dear and not that old in 1973. They were activists, and like most activists, they were troublesome. A sort of organic stick-in-the-eye to agribusiness in the local markets and supermarkets. Well, things change. The local counterculture turned establishment, but this irony seems to be lost on them. Most humor is lost on most everyone there.

They love their rules at the Coop, but what they love even more is trying to change your behavior with food and moralizing, which is the tried and true carrot and stick method preferred by mothers the world over.

Fresh meat.

Although I've been hurrying past the Coop for over twelve years, I was never tempted to join until they started carrying meat. I hear they made this radical change after strenuous objections from the vegans at the member's meetings. I'm grateful that common sense prevailed, because the alternatives in shopping for healthy food in New York sure are expensive. A friend of mine, younger and with a busier schedule, shops at Whole Foods, which he affectionately calls Whole Paycheck. He has no time for the monthly shifts and rules and regs doled out by the core members of the Coop, who he affectionately calls hippie nazis.

Well I like the low prices, and it's only two blocks away. Since joining, I have learned to include more whole grains and fresh fruits and vegetables in my diet, but I am not vegan. I find cows delicious. I think the vegans at the Coop sense this. Or perhaps my big, black leather coat is a tip-off. I have learned to spot the vegans from their disdain when they see the coat. I wear it proudly, to piss them off. I've yet to be spattered with fake blood as I leave the coop, but I'm not discounting the possibility.

I'm especially fond of our grass-fed beef at the Coop, which I use in my very healthy, homemade, organic blognese sauce. Please note that I used the possessive pronoun when referring to red meat, because it is, after all, our Coop. And I'm very sorry for the vegans, and their stepchildren, the vegetarians, for losing their battle.

Our Coop has other delicious items I can recommend: nearly a dozen flavors of Ben & Jerry's, interesting beers, imported ales, artisan cheeses, and many, many brands of chocolate, cleverly marketed as health food.

The Coop also has a communistic paging system that any member can pick up and use to broadcast his or her particular issue to absolutely everyone in the place. Please note that I didn't refer to it as our paging system, because I've never used it. It's as simple as picking up a phone, but I've never used it, because I don't believe in broadcasting my issues in a public place.

Walk a mile in my (leather) shoes.

I went shopping on Friday afternoon, two days after Christmas. I like to shop on weekdays before 5pm, which is when the store traffic and stress levels rise. But the Coop is understaffed between the holidays. At any given time, most everyone on duty is an active member working an unpaid shift. We do this, not out of the goodness of our hearts, but to fulfill a monthly obligation. If we miss a shift and don't make it up, we're suspended and lose our shopping privleges.

Even though it was early in the day, it was crowded. The shelves were sparsely stocked. The checkout lines were long. Oh boy, here we go...

"Will someone please send down the rear lift?" The voice on the page was sharp, impatient. "Someone asked for kosher chickens, and I need to get them upstairs."

I wheeled my little cart through the produce section until my path was blocked by a large shopping cart left in the middle of the narrow aisle. The driver of the cart was picking through the bin of brussel sprouts. I wanted brussel sprouts too, but after watching those stubby fingers pinch every sprout in the bin, I thought better of it. I also thought an "excuse me" would clear the way, but no, all I got was a shrug. I went back down the other aisle, toward the bulk items.

Another voice on a page, this one alarmed: "A boy in a brown sweater has lost his mother. He is running past the cheese, and he is distraught."

Bless the beasts and little children.

Like gazelle on the savannah, children roam free at the Coop. There's a daycare center, but not all god's creatures are left up there.

I wheeled around to the bulk bins, and there was another one, about two years old, helping Mommy with the flour. She handed him the big scoop and held open her plastic bag. What could be more adorable? The little tyke lost patience with the scoop and plunged his grasping hands deep into the flour bin. Mommy reminded the tyke that it was not his flour, that the flour belonged to everyone. He was enveloped in a little, white cloud. He sneezed. Mommy handed back the scoop. He dropped it and reached into the flour again. I nixed the quinoa, which was in the bin beside the flour.

I pushed my little cart in the direction of my beloved meat, and was straight-armed in the thigh by the little boy in the brown sweater as he flew past. He did seem distraught.

"Will you PLEASE send down the rear lift so I can get the kosher chickens up there before sundown?"

Ah, it was Friday.

Coop gridlock.

I was having trouble reaching the meat, as the checkout line was snaking around in a curlicue that had swallowed the width of the aisle. To my right was the kombucha, touted for improving intestinal flora, detoxifying pollutants, strengthening the immune system, stimulating hair growth, improving arthritis and, and as a health tonic for cancer. I happen to like it because it's a good hangover remedy. New Year's was coming up, so I grabbed two bottles and tried to "excuse me" through the gridlock.

"There's a green Volkswagen parked in front of the loading zone. PLEASE move it so we can unload our fresh, fresh foods."

The next voice was less urgent. "There's um... Whoever drives the red Toyota wagon parked next to the Green Volkswagen? Your three kids are in it, and... Not cool. Leaving your kids locked in cars is not cool."

It was fine by me.

Male bonding.

Well, I made to the meat. Beside me stood a guy wearing an enormous backpack, also sifting through the luscious, red beef, also a bit sheepish, as if he were perusing porn.

A new voice on the pager sounded harried. "The little boy in the brown sweater is back up in daycare, where he should have been all along. Will his mother PLEASE come to daycare? She is wearing Uggs and a fedora. For those of you who don't know, Uggs are made from sheepskin." A child wailed in the background.

I wheeled my cart and its few items to the end of the optimistically entitled Express Line. It too snaked down and around the aisles. I was behind a man who was obsessively glancing at his watch, who was behind my fellow carnivore and his enormous backpack. The carnivore left his little cart unattended to go grab another item. The man in front of me glanced at his watch. The line moved a little. The watch watcher made a big show of moving up the abandoned cart, and then his own.

An excited voice: "I saw a woman in a fedora and Uggs leave a few minutes ago."

"Leaving your children in daycare while you shop at other stores is against Coop rules! She knows that!" The child continued to wail in the background.

The carnivore returned to his abandoned cart. He was smiling sheepishly, more red meat in hand. The man with the watch was not amused. I glanced in his cart. No meat, no dairy. Yep, another vegan.

"The rear lift finally arrived down here, thank you very much. But I can't send the kosher chickens up because I haven't been trained to work the controls. No one showed me anything, they just threw me down here!"

The carnivore scurried away from his cart again. The watch watcher huffed and picked up the phone on the wall.

"The rest of us have completed our shopping BEFORE standing in this very long line. For someone to drop off their cart, expect other Coop members to move it along while they continue shopping is selfish, inconsiderate, and just plain rude."

Pay the piper.

I finally reached a checkout station and placed my items on the counter. The checkout vegan had piercings in her face, and a small wooden flute on a string around her neck. She scanned my items silently, except for the beef.

"I'm not touching that."

"Well then, how do I pay for it?" I adjusted the collar on my leather coat.

"You can scan it yourself if you want to, but the last time I scanned one of those, I had blood on my hands."

Touche. I reached over the counter and scanned my own beef with a broad gesture. My black leather arm grazed the vegan under her pierced cheek. I think she liked that.

I gathered my things into my string shopping bag and found my way outside. Strolling down Union Street, back toward the Coop, came the woman in the fedora and Uggs. She was carrying two bottles of wine in a bag from Red, White & Bubbly. Smart lady.

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.