An Ode to My Barber
A shout out to my barber, Fred. Barber, you say? Yes, I have some hair, just not a lot of it – and getting less every year. But I digress…
I don’t go to get my haircut at Fred’s shop because I need to. In fact, nobody who goes to Fred’s shop really needs anything more than a snip here and there. That’s because the average age of Fred’s customers dates back to the Pleistocene. No, hair is probably the last reason anybody goes to Fred. Truth is, Fred and his partner, Jerry, are average barbers at best. The reason people go to Fred shop is because of, well … Fred.
For 30 years, Fred has been cutting hair in his Pico Boulevard barber shop in Los Angeles. I don’t know if it’s been that long, really, I’m just guessing by the faded black and white photos; the worn discolored floor tiles; the vintage hair-style chart showing hairstyles that have gone in and out a dozen times already; and the yellowed note that has somehow managed to remain taped to the wall and reads, “No Swearing.” (This is a rule that Fred will sometimes strictly enforce and other times ignore altogether. It is generally ignored when he happens to be talking – preaching – about politics.)
I remember the day I first walked into Fred’s shop. I felt a little self conscious at first. There was a customer in Fred’s seat, a customer in Jerry’s seat, and five customers waiting. All eyes turned toward me as I walked in. But that wasn’t what made me feel uncomfortable; it was because I was the only white guy in the shop. I’m not used to being the minority and it felt odd – but only for a moment. Whatever awkwardness I had was quickly wiped away by Fred. His white speckled hair, slightly crooked stance and loud, but friendly, tone made me feel instantly welcome.
“How ya doin’, young man?” Fred asked, sensing my discomfort. (I’m 46.) “We got two in the chair and two waiting,” he continued, peering over his glasses. “But, it won’t be long,” he explained. “That is,” he added with a smirk, “If Jerry here would just pick up the pace a little bit.” Jerry’s response was — as always, I would soon come to learn — barely audible. Everyone seems to hear him but me – even when he’s cutting my hair. Everybody hears Jerry just fine, while I hear about every third word.
“What? Why you always [mumble, mumble, mumble], and I know [mumble, mumble, mumble] so that’s why you [mumble, mumble, mumble.].”
Two waiting. Always. Five people sitting there, but only two waiting. The others are generally there for the same reason I go there – Fred. During the holidays, Fred always cooks up a meal and keeps it heated in the backroom of his shop. He fancies himself an even better chef than a barber. “Help yourself,” he says nodding toward the backroom without missing a beat with his scissors. “Got some turkey back there, some coleslaw and grits, you gotta have grits.”
All of Fred’s “customers” sit and eat and listen to Fred. Fred engages his audience in deep discussions, often baiting them with questions he knows will cause feverish discourse. “Boys, you think this county will elect a woman before they elect a black man?” he yells in his tutorial tone. Sports is also big with the group. And, since this is Los Angeles, the topic usually centers around
Kobe. “That boy can play ball, now.” “Of course he makes a lotta money, look what he does for the team!” “What the hell was Kobe thinking?!”
Probably the only topic that gets covered more than others is family. Fred not only knows the names of all of his customers, he knows their wives’ names … and their kids … and the schools they attend (college and/or high school) … and their pet’s name. I’m serious.
Last week when I went to get my haircut it didn’t seem quite the same; things were a little off. The guys weren’t trash talking each other like they usually did. It was too quiet; weird; different. And then I noticed it. There, posted behind Fred’s chair, was a memorial picture of one of their own. His name was Doc, a Howard University graduate, a decorated Colonel of the Korean conflict and a “dentist to the stars,” as I noted on the memorial flier. I didn’t’ know any of that. Doc fell ill in January and by June he was gone; taken by Lou Gehrig’s disease. Doc was a cherubic man with a booming voice and one of the few customers who could go toe-to-toe with Fred on any topic.
“Can I have one of these,” I asked Fred, pointing to one of the fliers he had stacked on his counter. “Of course, son, of course,” he said, seeming touched that I asked. Fred stared at the picture before handing it to me as if it were Holy Communion. “He was a good man. A good man,” he said, softly. “Too young.”
Fred’s shop is one of three barber shops on Pico Boulevard near where I live. If you didn’t know who Fred was, you would still know his shop. It’s the one with no parking available and a collection of “customers” waiting for an okay haircut and the best customer service in town.
Nobody spent thousands of dollars on fancy multi-media employee videos to teach Fred about customer service. And he doesn’t have some clever internal slogan designed to motivate him or remind him how the customer always comes first. He receives no awards, no trips and no recognition for his above-and-beyond service. That’s because what Fred has can’t be trained, taught or instructed. It just is – and the “it,” is Fred. A lot of companies could use a few Freds on their employee roster. Hell, if airlines would hire some Freds they wouldn’t have to worry about price wars with competing airlines, people would be clogging their terminals waiting to pay more for a chance to fly on Forget about Ted Airline; I want “Fred’s Airline.”