Cecil Soil Magazine

Hair Cuts with Herb by Ed Belote Sr.

Herb Benjamin has been cutting hair in the town of North East, Maryland for more than forty-five years. His barbershop (just off the side of his tackle shop) has become a landmark, and all who visit appreciate Herb’s affable, witty personality. Getting a cut at Herb’s is like stepping back in time; almost like being in Mayberry – the friendship and laughter beckon you to come back for more. Push open that squeaky screen door – come on in and listen…

Winter 2005...

Eighty-two-year-old Henry Dancy, got up for his cut and handed Herb his money in advance.
“Now that’s what I like,” said Herb.

One of the other boys quipped, “He’ll probably want it back when you’re done, Herb.” The room lit up with laughter. Herb smiled.

“Haven’t seen you in awhile, Mr. Dancy.”

“Just got back from Iowa – helping my son-in-law harvest corn. He’s got a 12,000 acre farm up there. We harvested over 100,000 bushels.”

“That’s a lot of corn,” replied Herb. “And you got a lot of good hunting up there too, don’t you, Mr. Dancy?”

“Yup, we sure do – lots of deer and pheasants, but I don’t mess with any hunting – never did. Always too busy farming; even though I was born and raised in the mountains of West Virginia. The closest I came to hunting was the day I shot a groundhog with a BB gun. He was down by the apple trees and I popped him in the head – didn’t hurt him, ya know, just ticked him off. He came running for me, and I had to fend him off with the BB gun. He bit into the barrel – scared me.”

“I’ll tell you what,” added Herb. “Don’t ever plant yourself between a ground hog and his hole – he’ll bowl you over to get to that hole.”

His cut completed, Mr. Dancy stepped out of the chair. “Paid you in advance, Herb.”

“Yes I know, Mr. Dancy, and I thank you very much”

Mr. Dancy departed with final words of wisdom, “Life is what you make it – you can make it good – you can make it bad.”

Everyone in the room nodded in agreement.

The conversation next centered on all the construction going on out front – the streetscape project. I mentioned to Herb that his place was barricaded like Fort Knox.

“I’ll tell you what,” he droned, “it’s gonna take all my years of experience to stay in business here.”

Someone offered, “Herb, you might as well close up and go on vacation.”

Herb laughed, “I got news for you – this is vacation.”

Chuck Johnson slid into the chair of honor and said to me, “You know why they’re building those senior housing apartments in town?” I bit, and asked why.

“Well, Herb says that by the time them young boys get that street project done, they’ll be ready for it.” The room burst into laughter, and Chuck added, “Should I’ve told them that, Herb?”

“Oh, that’s OK,” said Herb. “How do you want your cut – same as usual, Chuck?”

“You mean one sideburn high… the other low and plenty of gouges all over?”

Hearty laughter rocked the room again and just before it subsided, Mr. David Loflin chimed in, “The only reason I come in here, is Herb has my bowl, but he does offer a six week warranty.”

Seventy-year-old Herbert Baldwin added to the merriment, “Remember that time… I was a young man, and you gave me a flat-top, Herb?”

Smiling, Herb nodded.

“And you used some kind of smelly stick-wax to make it stand up?” Herb smiled even more.

“And as soon as I stepped outside I was attacked by a thousand green-eyed flies. They were all over me—even sticking to my hair.”

Through all the ensuing laughter and knee slapping I noticed a young fellow by the name of Shaun O’Donnell. Although obviously enjoying the show, he was quiet and did not contribute to the verbiage…I could only conclude that he must have been awe-struck by our clever exchanges.

Also contributing with clever exchanges were John Palmer and Richard Hickman.

Autumn 2004...

As I walked into Herb’s I saw half-a-dozen chairs filled, and received the usual friendly nods and greetings from the crowd. Herb had Doc, an 87-year-old retired chiropractor, perched on his chair. Without taking his eyes off Doc’s head, and with clippers flying, Herb made an announcement.

“I got an old friend coming in. He’s got some medical problems and I’m gonna jump him ahead of everybody.”

“Fine,” I replied. “Say, who’s got that low license plate parked out front?”

“License number L-1? That’s me,” said Bob Lubking in a gravelly voice.

“You a politician or what?”

Bob grinned. “Nooo – I just wanted something I could remember.”

Still clipping, Herb asked Doc a question. “Fellow was in the other day … said you fished a lot with Virgil Gilbert?”

“He took me on my first ice fishing trip many years ago,” Doc replied.

Herb nodded knowingly. “Old Virgil knew that river – didn’t he?”

“I didn’t know a thing about ice fishing,” remembered Doc. “Virgil had a bunch of lures there. He says, ‘Pick one out, Doc.’ I picked one out and Virgil says, ‘Only sixty cents for that one, Doc.”

The little shop erupted in laughter. Old Doc sat quietly with a wry grin on his face. Bob Lubking’s raspy laugh was infectious – causing even more guffaws. With perfect timing, Herb jumped in with a story:

“I remember when Virgil went duck hunting with this fellow. They killed a bunch of Canvasbacks – twelve of them. He put six in one pile and six in the other. This fellow says to Virgil, ‘You take this pile, I’ll take that pile.’ Virgil took them home and his father said, ‘this is a bunch of the poorest Canvasbacks I have ever seen.

“The next time they went hunting together, the same thing happened – they limited out with six ducks each. This fellow piled them up here and piled them up there, and ole Virgil asked, ‘which pile’s mine?’

“As soon as the fellow pointed at one pile, old Virgil quickly grabbed up the other one, turned around, walked away, and said, ‘I think I shot thesens.’”

The room filled with laughter once again.

Doc’s trim was done and it was time for him to go. Slowly and with difficulty, he pulled himself out of the chair and stood upright. While he was reaching for his wallet, someone quipped, “This is Herb’s favorite part.” Ignoring this jab, Herb helped Doc put his sweater on, and Doc quietly departed the shop.

Soon the screen door squeaked again, and eighty-one year old Ed Henley, with the help of his daughters, Bonnie and Debbie, slowly maneuvered into the room.

“You're next, Ed—I moved you ahead,” said Herb. Debbie and Bonnie escorted their father to the chair and helped him get seated.

“Thanks, Herbie,” said Debbie. “Dad wanted this haircut. He said it was aggravating him.”

It turned out that Ed’s medical problem was cardiac surgery, and I asked Debbie about it.

“His Carotid Artery was blocked 80 percent on one side, and 100 percent on the other,” she said. “He had them cleaned out, and suffered a mini-stroke during the operation – we’re just happy to have our Daddy.”

“Herbie…I’ll tell you,” muttered Ed. He struggled a bit, but kept going. “Herbie, where’s your boy at?”

“I don’t know where he’s at,” replied Herb. “But wherever he is, he’s fishing – the fishing-est boy I ever knew!” Finishing up Ed’s cut, Herb told him, “Well, Mr. Henley, you don’t look sick anymore.”

“Herbie, you going to trim his eyebrows?” laughed Debbie. “They look like they want to jump out on you!” Herb nodded and trimmed; Debbie smiled in appreciation.

“When my Daddy had bypass surgery, Herbie came out to our house and gave him a haircut, ‘cause Dad couldn’t get around. Herbie takes care of my Daddy,” she said.

“You make house calls, Herb?” someone asked. I could tell they were getting ready to give him another kidding.

Putting his finger to his pursed lips, Herb whispered, “Shhh – Don’t let that get out.”