Barber Shop
When I was a little boy, I walked to and from school. Yes, this was in the “dangerous” inner-city of Amsterdam. The school was also within 30 minutes, walking distance, from our apartment, and my mom had a rule… If you could walk it withing 30 minutes, you didn’t need bus fare. Not to mention there wasn’t any bus stopping there anyway. In one of the tiny little streets on my way, one of many as this is, and was the city center of Amsterdam, there was a barber shop.
The barber shop was owned by a guy, an old geezer, who was also the master make-up artists (grimeur) for the Dutch Royal Operetta Company.Not that I have ever cared for that kind of music, but the man’s shop window was always filled with wigs and costumes and make-up. As a little boy I was mesmerized. I spent more time with my nose pressed against the shop window then I can remember.
One day, when I had my nose firmly planted against the picture window, standing on my toes to get as good a view as was pre-teenly possible, I heard a deep voice. “Boy,” the voice said, “That hair of yours if getting awefully shaggy. Let me take care of that!” I looked up into the friendly old face of the barber shops’ proprietor standing on the stoop leading into the old building… I told him I didn’t have any money, and he told me not to worry, we would take care of that later.
While he was snipping away at my hair, he asked me why I was looking in his shop window every day. I told him that I liked theatre, and especially that I fancied myself somewhat of a make-up artist. “Oh really?” he said. He finished my hair, and then put some left over stage make-up in my hand as he gently pushed me out the door. “Your mother must be worried about you. Go home, I’ll see you tomorrow”.
The next day, when I walked back from school, old Mister Schroeder was standing in the doorway of the barber shop. “Care for some tea?” he asked me. I was sat down in one of the three barber chairs in his shop. He picked up the phone on the counter where the cash register was and before I knew it a friendly lady came down with a tray holding two cups. She presented my with one and gave the other to her husband.
Mr. Schroeder showed me a door. “When customers come in,” he said, “go in that door. It leads to a set of stairs. Just walk up and my wife will take care of you.”
The barber shop smelled wonderful. Shampoo, hair water, old fashioned stage make-up. Every once in a while I watched the old Mr. Schroeder give someone a shave, but mostly when customers were in I would be whisked away to the upstairs. A place where there was always tea and cookies, served from a beat up tin by the wife of the barber.
There is a wonderful celebration in the Netherlands. Kind of like Christmas, but not quite. On December 5th, The old Saint Nicholas comes to bring presents to the good kids of the children of Holland. The old barber didn’t change his window display much, but for St. Nick he would go all out. It would have St. Nick costumes, fake beards, more make-up… His store would always have a tray of cookies on the counter, and he would always invite me in to watch the “making of St. Nick”. Somehow whenever I finished school he’d be working on dressing up and doing the make-up for another ” mall sinterklaas”.
Then, after countless free haircuts, but long before I had my first paying gig as a make-up artist — yes I dabbled in that before becoming a software developer — the old man told me it was time to retire… He didn’t waste much time either. Before I knew it the familiar barber shop had changed into something that resembled a Starbucks. It only took days to transform my favorite after-school hangout into something that could sell CD’s along side latte.
In the years that followed, I can’t begin to recall what kind of shop has been in that location. I haven’t been in Amsterdam for a while. But whenever I walk past that building, I see an old man in a blue barbers’ coat standing in the doorway. And whenever I walk past, I smell brill cream and grease make-up… But all I want, is a cup of tea. Sleep well, Mr. Schroeder, where ever you may be.