October 19, 2025

By Arthur H. Gunther III

thecolumnrule.com

You know the feeling when you are about to sneeze big time in polite company, and you just hold your breath hoping to avoid spritzing everyone? Well, maybe that trepidation began – for males anyway – when you had to sit still at age 12 in the barbershop and hair fell on your face.

You desperately wanted to rub your nose – the tickle was killing you, and the seconds seemed like long minutes – but that meant pulling a hand out from under the big striped cloth that covered you, then reaching up and probably causing the barber to slip at the scissors and knick your ear.

You just would not do that. Barbers held great power, and you would not cross them. You might ignore your mom’s directives, or daydream in class or otherwise defy authority, but not the man with the scissors.

And that would hold true for the nicest, kindest of tonsorial artists, like the fellow in the Church Street shop where my brother Craig and I would be trimmed for 75 cents each. The barber there chatted, even with kids, and he asked about school. You were comfortable there until the cut hair fell on your face.

These days the only time I think in tonsorial ways is to realize each morning, looking in the mirror, that I am tonsorially challenged. For the most part, I no longer have need of a barber. The benefit of that is my nose doesn’t get tickled in mild agony. The loss is that no one asks a 12 year old how he is doing in school.

Growing up can be a hairy time.

The writer is a retired newspaperman.

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