During my childhood, I remember having a fascination for old Americana paintings by Norman Rockwell. I think this started when I saw my first ones on the covers of old magazines once-collected by my mom which I liked to read during lazy weekend afternoons. However, out of his many works (which by the way, depicted ordinary day-to-day topics), my favorites had been the ones that centered around barber shop scenes. Understandably at the time, I could relate quite strongly to these Rockwell masterpieces because, across the street from our house in Ponciano where we spent our early days, was (thunderclap) Mang Pablo’s barbershop!
One has to understand, these were the grade school years and as was the dictate of them olden times, every other Monday was haircut check day and we had a resident enforcer to remind us of this. And so it was, every two weeks, usually right after Sunday church services, my parents would unceremoniously point their fingers in the direction of (thunderclap) Mang Pablo’s barbershop.
I once wrote in a related piece: “The impact of this society’s ritualistic imposition that all young boys should have their locks cut thus, frequent a barbershop, is significant. Most parents even immortalize it in pictures. “First haircut” photos adorn many albums, and I’m willing to bet many have them, as though they were an integral part of family treasures. Much like other childhood “traumas” (such as the first day at school for example), the most common reactions etched in the growing young minds are, “You mean I have to do this always?” and “Why?” This initiation to society, among with other rites of passage, is circumcision enough, although that kind of cutting is another story.”
Admittedly, I used to dread the Sundays whenever our mom or papa would look across the street and point us in that forsaken direction. My turn always took the longest time because I twitched too much, especially when Mang Pablo began to use the razor. As such, I carried this strong distaste for barbers and haircuts. Alas, when finally free of school, I wore my hair long and sported a beard, up until the birth of my first child that is. When I wasn’t allowed to kiss him because of my long hair and beard, that was then I decided, long hair wasn’t fun anymore and I’ve given the Mang Pablos of the world a bad rap.
Nowadays, I look forward to visiting my barber in downtown Mintal. Unlike Mang Pablo’s barbershop which was hot and stuffy, his is now air-conditioned and well-lit. Aside from the occasional trim, I equally enjoy listening to the small talk by old men who always have interesting tales to tell. I’m reminded of a local idiomatic expression, “kwentong barbero” (barber tales), which pertains to accounts, real or made-up, tall and incredible, but all equally-funny and entertaining, that are making the rounds, largely unnoticed in some old school barbershop near you.
Going back to Norman Rockwell and his Barbershop hits, may I put on the table it’s only fair our visual artists give tribute to this tiny segment of our culture.
