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It was the summer of 1996, my second trip with my family back to the Philippines. Right before I started freshman year in high school, my mom and dad decided to take a vacation. My dad just finished a 20-year career in the United States Navy, and as part of his retirement, he wanted to take us back to the home land.

Unlike the previous trip I took to the Philippines when my grandfather passed away a few years earlier, this one stood out a little bit more. I was 14 years old and the memories are fresher.

Two things I’ll always remember: “Doc” and his barbershop. There’s nothing like getting a haircut from a barber who uses a straight razor as his tool of preference. It’s funny what memories your mind decides to store in the bank. The barber and his straiht-razor have been etched into my mind.

My family and I loaded a van and took the trip from Cavite to Olongapo City, on the West Coast of the Philippines. My dad and I were heading out to visit the house my mom grew up in. The house was special because it was also the home of the family Barbershop.

My mom’s family lived upstairs, while the shop was located on the first floor.

“Doc” was a longtime barber (his real name eludes both my mother and I) and the man knew how to cut hair. I don’t know Doc's history of cutting hair, but I realized why the shop was a popular place for military men, especially when Subic Bay was home to a United States naval base.

He was a tall and slender, aging man. Gray was as prominent on his head as the smile on his face. Doc use to be a busy day-to-day barber with a ton of customers. But when the Navy base closed down he lost a lot of them.

The last time I saw the man must've been in 1985, when my dad moved the family to the United States 12 years ago. I was surprised he knew me by name.

Sitting down in his chair, you quickly begin to realize how old school his style was. A pair of scissors, a mirror and two black combs inhabited his work station. “So how do they cut your hair over in America?” Doc asked, as he put a tissue around my neck. “Do they use scissors or these?”

He opened a drawer and there was a brand new set of clippers sitting inside. I didn’t know when I was going to be able to get another haircut from Doc, so I went with the old-school flavor: scissors and a comb. He wrapped an apron around me and began to go to work.

Quick, precise and smooth. That’s how the man worked with his scissors.

After getting my hair down to a good, short length, I thought I was done. He reached into the drawer, for what I thought were the clippers, came back around me, tugged on a leather belt and began running something on it.

He came around to my right side and said, “Almost done, I have to get the ears and side burns.” I looked at the mirror ahead of me and saw a straight razor in his hand.

As quickly and precisely as he had cut my hair with scissors, Doc went to work with a careful, yet intentional stroke, making sure everything was even. I looked up amazed by his skill.

Around the ears, down following my neck and the back of it. It was so even that it appeared Doc had used a ruler to make sure it was nice and straight.

was in and out in fewer than five minutes. My hair looked like it was handled by a fancy hair stylist, but it wasn’t. It was handled by a veteran barber who knew exactly what he was doing. Doc didn’t even have to ask if I liked it - he knew. The smile that stretched from ear-to-ear told him everything he needed to know.

One day in 2005, the caretakers of the house and barbershop where Doc worked called my mom to say that Doc passed away of natural causes. I’ll always remember how Doc cut my hair that day.

Now that I’m 25, I have yet to receive another hair cut from a barber that uses a straight razor, and I don’t think I ever will.

Any thoughts or comments email Ray HERE

 

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