Have you ever heard a song called, “Mamas, Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up To Be Barbers”?

I’ve never heard it, but there must be such a song.

My uncle Bill was a barber. He had a barbershop in Burt, Iowa, for a little over 100 years.

It was not only a place to get clipped and trimmed, it was a place to hear stories.

I loved to hear the stories.

My mother said that at best, the stories were mere gossip.

At worst, she concluded, they were lies.

My father agreed with her assessment as far as the lying part went.

He always said that the first liar didn’t have a chance.

You told your lie and the others hanging out in the barbershop would take their turns topping it.

My father didn’t consider what he heard as ever being gossip.

It was merely a method of accumulating useful information.

The barbershop was the information highway of its day.

It was a place where sex education was taught long before such classes found their way into our schools. I loved visiting Bill’s Barbershop.

Sometimes my uncle Bill would pay me to sweep up the ears. The barbershop is an interesting place. You had to check your ego at the door as insults and wisecracks were taken to the professional level.

“I’d like to get a haircut.”

“Why not get them both cut? The price is the same.”

“Your hair is getting gray.”

“Try cutting it a little faster.”

“Just take a little off around the ears.

I don’t have time to listen to a haircut.”

“I want my hair parted in the middle.”

“I’m afraid that’s impossible.

I just counted them and you have an odd number of hairs.”

“Hand me that razor.

I need something to defend myself with while you cut my hair.”

“I’m just here for an estimate.”

“Are you the guy who cut my hair the last time?”

“I don’t think so.

I’ve only been here for four years.”

“Do you want a haircut or an oil change?”

Men who are losing their hair quickly discover that they are given no discounts for making the barber’s job easier. The barber’s excuse is that he has to work harder to find the remaining hairs. Bill’s Barbershop contained nary a blow dryer, curling iron or a single tube of mousse. There were no perms given and no hair coloring done.

Bill was not a hair stylist. If someone were to call him one, Bill would have gone off on a two-week pout.

Bill used a clipper, a scissors and a straight edge razor that was sharpened on a leather strop that hung from the barber’s chair.

Bill would give you a haircut and a shave, as well as giving unruly eyebrows a pruning.

Upon request, he would even give nose hairs a light trimming at no extra charge.

The barbershop was a place where sports were spoken fluently.

Weather was discussed.

Outdoor magazines were stacked to the point of doing bodily harm if they should ever happen to fall.

The barbershop was a place for loafers and characters; a hangout for misfits and miscreants.

It was entertainment for those with severe budget restraints.

The barbershop was a destination for the travel-impaired.

Tom’s Barbershop was a focal point of the community in Hartland, just as my uncle Bill’s shop was in Burt.

Tom’s offered a meeting place for the Hartland Loafer’s Club.

The HLC met each day, did nothing and then went home and rested.

A fellow could get a college degree’s worth of an education just by sitting in Tom’s Barber Shop and listening.

I was happier than a opossum eating dirt out of a hair oil bottle when I was in either Uncle Bill’s or Tom’s.

They brought a smile to work and passed it around to all who needed one.

Jokes abounded.

Martha Stewart’s name was never mentioned in either shop.

Bill and Tom were barbers.

Both of these wonderful barbershops have closed.

I like to stop and visit a barbershop whenever I see one.

I still learn a lot by visiting and I never fail to find a smile. Every town used to have at least one barbershop.

You could find them by looking for the red-and-white barber pole located just outside the shop. The barbershops are still out there.

They are just a little harder to find.

The barber has become an endangered species.

Save the barbers.

Hartland resident Al Batt writes columns for the Wednesday and Sunday editions of the Albert Lea Tribune.