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Jesup, Georgia 31545

Wednesday, March 6, 2013

75

Maybe its not too late to reverse my first business-world rejection

My Opinion
MMM
When a mans hair starts to salt and pepper or turn loose, his mind wanderssometimes backwards to his boyhood barbershop experiences. I rememDINK ber climbing up NeSMITH into Ralph Chairman Granthams chair in Jacks Barber Shop. The big day was his announcement: This time, buddy, you dont need to sit on the board. You felt almost grown when you were tall enough to get your ears lowered and not have to perch on the booster board across the two arms of the chair. For a boy, the barber shop was as close as you could get to a mans world before you sneaked your dads razor to scrap off pubescent peach fuzz. Jacks was the 50-yard line of manhood. The proprietor, Jack Jacksons station, was on the left. Ralph occupied the center chair, and Herbert Dent was the new man who plied his trade next to the Cherry Street plate glass window. Ralph was my regular barber. I can still smell the butch wax that he combed into my flattop. But he was retired by the time I could finally justify a hot-towel-on-your-face-latherup-and-straight-razor shave. I remember letting my teenage beard grow about a week, getting ready for the rite of passage. Herbert should have chuckled, but he didnt. Leaning back in his chair, I got the royal treatment. It was as memorable as that first kiss. Jacks Barber Shop was also the scene of my first business-world rejection. That was memorable, too. I wanted a job in the air-conditioned

During the 1950s, Jacks Barber Shop on Cherry Street was a busy place. Thanks to the help of Nancy Dent Jones and her aunt, Lavonne Dent, this photo was found, showing barbers--from left, proprietor Jack Jackson, Ralph Grantham and Herbert Dent--ready to lower the ears of three customers. Do you know who is sitting in the chairs? How about the boy waiting to hear one of the barbers call out, Next!? shop that had a Coca-Cola machine in the backroom. I imagined how glorious it would be shining shoes and listening to the barbers and customers banter. By the time I was 7, Big Dink had taught me the art of making a cotton shine rag pop. I was ready for the Kiwi-polish-and-horsehair-brush world in Jacks. And Id heard men bark, Watch the socks. So I knew to be careful, especially with the sole and heel dressing. Brimming with confidence, I was satisfied my customers would see their reflection in the shiny toes of their wingtips. But when I asked for the job, the boss never stopped snipping. He nodded toward the corner, Sorry, son, Ive already got a shoeshine boy. Even as a second grader, I really wanted that job. Talk to a man my age, and hell rattle off plenty of barbershop stories. I laugh about my friends and their weekly pilgrimage to Jewell Brinkleys chair. The Screven barber could hold court with the best. The more men waiting to hear next, the more Jewell worked the crowd. Another rite of passage is surviving barbershop teasing. When Jewell was brushing the clippings from a lads shoulders and before hed splash smell um on his young patrons neck, he would grin and ask, OK, son, what would you like: gal bait or coon pee? Then Jewell would wink at the peanut gallery lined up against the wall. For a 10-year-old boy, that was a tricky question. Before hed admit he liked girls, hed rather walk out the door smelling like raccoon urine. These days, finding a Ralph, Herbert, Jack or Jewell isnt easy. Luckily, Jerry Moseley is still snipping. For 15 years, Zach has been cutting my hair. Recently, he moved to a new salon. As I was listening to elevator music, I scanned the snazzy surroundings, complete with a receptionist, coffee bar, candy jar and a masseuse or two. This place has it all, I thought. Then it hit me: Something is missing. Maybe its not too late. I could be their shoeshine boy. dnesmith@cninewspapers.com