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One upon a time when honesty was prized and a man was
defined by his work, Mort the Barber stopped cutting hair. As far as anyone knew Mort had been cutting hair in
our small town since hair was called fur — but no more! The town had
slandered him, publicly accused him of cheating, and Mort would cut no hair
until justice was served, until not a hint of impropriety remained. Mort the Barber was the only hair game in town. No
Mort, no perfect burr cuts for boys, no perfectly trimmed regular haircuts
for men. Bad home-cut hair would rule the day, and, as everyone could
plainly see by watching the Army-McCarthy hearings on those
just-recently-available-to-small-towns TV sets, Communists had bad
haircuts! The yet-unresolved question: Did bad haircuts cause Communism, or
was it the other way around? The Mort problem: The town’s formerly
successful Start of Summer Carnival had lost money the last two years;
folks were glued to their new TVs, staying home and watching everything
from wrestling to test patterns instead of venturing out for entertainment
— such as going to the carnival. Because Joe Welch once walked by
London’s very successful Piccadilly Circus during World War II, the
carnival committee asked his opinion. Joe suggested a name-guessing game
with decent donated prizes.
A new carnival booth joined the traditional booths
that year, and people were invited to see who could come closest to
guessing the last names of Jim the Plumber, Hank of Hank’s Bar and
Grill, and Mort the Barber Nobody guessed Mort’s, but his wife was only
two letters off. The committee, however, disqualified her, claiming that
she had “inside” information. Mort, insisting that he’d
never in a million years cheat, issued an ultimatum: There would be no more
haircuts until his honor was restored.
(To be honest, there was also the matter of money.
Reasonably sure that his wife would win, Mort donated a year’s worth
of free haircuts as prize to the winner. Because no woman dared try a
barbershop haircut in 1954, Mort knew that his wife would give him the
prize. In the small print of his haircut donation, thinking himself quite
clever indeed, Mort had stipulated that if the winner were to give the
prize to another, the given-away haircuts would be charged full price. At a
buck a haircut for 52 weeks, Mort was expecting a $52 windfall from
himself. ) A month passed. Hair grew, with no resolution in
sight. Then Sammy “Nails” Brewster, catcher and cleanup hitter for the town’s
only Little League team, showed up at practice sprouting what looked like a
ponytail! Coach Knuckles Kloof was pounding on Mort’s front door 10
minutes later.
“Mort, I think you understand the magnitude
here. I can’t have no catcher with a ponytail — maybe in an emergency, a rightfielder, but never a
catcher! You, my harebrained friend, must start cuttin’, now!”
Mort: Can’t be
done. It’s a matter of honor and justice.
Knuckles: I’ll
have the mayor apologize publicly for the entire town. Mort: Won’t do. I
thought it out. It’s gotta be another but different contest that resolves
the matter — a square deal, of course, everyone with an equal chance
to win, but I ain’t cuttin’ again — unless I win! Knuckles puzzled for a moment, then asked,
“What’s your wife’s name?”
Mort: Mort the
Barber’s wife. Knuckles: Her first name, you ignorant
headhunter!
Mort: Mabel. “Perfect,” said the Knuck. “We do
it this way: You ain’t using your shop, so we’ll have Mabel use
it to open up a joint called Mabel the Manicurist. As part of the grand
opening, she gives a year’s worth of free haircuts to the one
comin’ closest to peggin’ her last moniker. Nobody in this town
is stupid enough to pay another person to gnaw back their fingernails, so
no one will come in — but you. As the only contestant, you
can’t lose. “Mort?”
Mort: What? Knuckles: I have
reason to believe Joe Welch is a communist. A week later Mort the Barber was back cuttin’
hair. Even though no one else entered Mabel’s contest, Mort only
finished second. He knew her last name as well as he knew his own, but he
badly misspelled it, so, in all fairness, Mabel couldn’t give him
first prize. At Knuckles’ urging, though, she agreed to award Mort
second place. Here’s the lucky part: Second prize was six
months of free haircuts — and because Mort hadn’t worked for a
while, he was forced to temporarily double his haircut price to $2. The
six-month prize at $2 per head was equal to his original $52 loss.
It all added up in a small town in 1954 — once
upon a time, long ago, in the middle of the country, in the middle of the
century, near the end of innocence.
Contact Doug Bybee Sr. at dougbybee@sbcglobal.net.
This article appears in May 24-30, 2007.
