When I was a boy, my father took me to the barber for a hair
cut once a month. The barber threw the cloth around my shoulders and fired up
his electric trimmer, and ran it all over my head, and never once said a word.
Once he was done, he’d undo the cloth, give my shoulders a quick dusting with
his brush, and indicate with a nod of his head that it was time for me to hop
off. My dad paid whatever it was he paid. The barbershop was like a clubhouse,
but one that still held all its secrets. You could sit in the chair, but you
knew you hadn’t been allowed in. I got the same haircut every other boy got in
1959. Some boys I know went to Vietnam having never experienced more than a
quarter inch of hair their whole lives. Some hadn’t even started shaving for
real yet.
The women went to the salon. I don’t know what they did
there.
My father was a man’s man. He wore a suit and tie every day
of the year, even on weekends. The only time I ever saw him in anything other
than that was in his pajamas and robe on Christmas morning, and again, when he
was laid up before he died. My dad never said much. He went to work and wore a
suit, and slicked his hair back with pomade and kissed my mother on the cheek
and poured himself a whiskey once he got home. He read the newspaper and
watched some baseball.
He barbecued. He bought himself a big round barbecue grill
and a big sack of coals and he grilled steaks on his birthday. Mother would
pretend not to do any work, but she did everything except put the steaks on the
grill. She smiled a lot but she also fell asleep early.
My uncle got a new camera. In this photo, he asked us to
pose. He asked me to hold the raw steak up for my dad, and so I did. My mother
never drank beer, but my uncle thought she’d look less awkward with a drink in
her hand. Some of the steaks had been glazed with a marinade — you can see them
— but the rest we just laid on the cold coals. No-one had remembered to light
them up before my uncle posed us all for the picture. That’s the only way I
could hold my hands out so close to the grill; it was stone cold.
This is not the recommended way to cook steak.
I can’t recall the look on my father’s face. I mean, I can’t
name it. I guess impassive is as
close as I’m going to get. He was the sort of man who thought it was important
to cut your hair once a month and to own a barbecue. I’m not sure what my
mother saw in him. Perhaps she saw a man in a suit and apron standing in front
of an unlit grill holding a spatula.
Yes, now that I think of it, that’s exactly what she saw.
Better Homes &
Gardens Barbecue Book, Meredith Publishing Company, 1959
