I’m attending a conference in Chicago this week. Sessions take place on one floor of a huge office tower. Lunches are long. As a result, I have a lot of time to explore the “pedway” — a warren of stores and shops on street level.
At the far end, I discover a barber shop. Feeling a little tatty around the edges, I step inside. It’s an older shop, with an owner — an Italian immigrant — whose shop, after thirty-seven years in business in this location, is now the last of the pedway’s original retail shops. A younger man — also Italian, with his salt-and-pepper hair in a crisp, clean cut — waves me over, introduces himself, and gets to work.
The ensuing forty-five minutes are the best of my day. Joe has a soft, low voice and warm hands. He clips gently. His conversation is neither chatty nor forced. He takes his time. I learn about his wife, his four year-old daughter, this year’s gentle winter, the local belief that April will bring one last, massive snow before giving way to spring. He’s slender, and, like me, has just lost a lot of weight by cutting back on carbs. And like me, he’s had a tough time because he loves pizza. And pasta. And chocolate. And ice cream.
The entire experience is as relaxing as a therapeutic massage: drifting, soothing, grounding. When it’s over, I leave looking great — he’s an amazing barber — but also feeling calmer and lighter.
I walked in for a haircut. I left feeling renewed. It’s a nice surprise.
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