Hair grows at the rate of about half an inch a
month. I don't know where he got his
facts, but Mr. Washington came up with that one
when we were comparing barbers. That means
that about eight feet of hair had been cut off
my head and face in the last sixteen years by my
barber.
I hadn't thought much about it until I called to
make my usual appointment and found that my
barber had left to go into building
maintenance. What? How could he do
this? My barber. It felt like
a death in the family. There was so much
more to our relationship than sartorial
statistics.
We started out as categories to each
other: "barber" and
"customer." Then we became
"redneck ignorant barber" and "pinko
egghead minister." Once a month we
reviewed the world and our lives and explored
our positions. We sparred over civil
rights and Vietnam and lots of elections.
We became mirrors, confidants, confessors,
therapists, and companions in an odd sort of
way. We went through being thirty years
old and then forty. We discussed and
argued and joked, but always with a certain
thoughtful deference.
After all, I was his
customer. And he was standing there with
his razor in his hand.
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I found out that his dad was a country
policeman, that he grew up poor in a tiny town
and had prejudices about Indians. He found
out that I had the same small-town roots and
grew up with prejudices about Blacks. Our
kids were the same ages, and we suffered through
the same stages of parenthood together. We
shared wife stories and children stories and car
troubles and lawn problems. I found out he
gave his day off to giving free haircuts to old
men in nursing homes. He found out a few
good things about me, too, I suppose.
I never saw him outside the barber shop, never
met his wife or children, never sat in his home
or ate a meal with him. Yet he became a
terribly important fixture in my life.
Perhaps a lot more important than if we had been
next-door neighbors. The quality of our
relationship was partly created by a peculiar
distance. There's a real sense of loss in
his leaving. I feel like not having my
hair cut anymore, though eight feet of hair may
seem strange.
Without realizing it, we fill important places
in each other's lives. It's that way with
a minister and congregation. Or with the
guy at the corner grocery, the mechanic at the
local garage, the family doctor, teachers,
neighbors, co-workers. Good people, who
are always "there," who can be relied
upon in small, important ways. People who
teach us, bless us, encourage us, support us,
uplift us in the dailiness of life. We
never tell them. I don't know why, but we
don't.
And, of course, we fill that role
ourselves. There are those who depend on
us, watch us, learn from us, take from us.
And we never know. Don't sell yourself
short. You may never have proof of your
importance, but you are more important than you
think.
It reminds me of an old Sufi story of a good man
who was granted one wish by God. The man
said he would like to go about doing good
without knowing about it. God granted his
wish. And then God decided that it was
such a good idea, he would grant that wish to
all human beings. And so it has been to
this day.
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