Get Rhythm

I'm a fan of Johnny Cash, "The Man in Black." My dad liked him, turning his music up when it came across the radio, the deep baritone resonating through the speakers. I guess it makes sense that I liked him then and still enjoy listening to him today. Occasionally his music floats through my mind while I see or hear something - like "Burning Ring of Fire" when I pass a taco joint or "Folsom Prison Blues" when I roll by the county jail. I have a CD of his older stuff when he was still with Sun Records. He had a song about a boy who shined shoes. I always wondered if he wrote the song after seeing a little fella putting a shine on a businessman's Florsheim's while waiting for a train to the next show in the next town. 

Hey, get rhythm!

When you get the blues!

C'mon, get rhythm!

When you get the blues!

Get a rock and roll feeling in your bones

Put taps on your toes, and get goin'

Get rhythm!

When you get the blues!

I thought of Johnny's song while waiting for my haircut today. My barber is old-school, working in an old-school shop. I forget how long he's been cutting hair, but I would wager six pieces of bubble gum that he's seen it all, from man-perms in the 80's to man-buns today. From the barber pole outside the door to the black-and-white checkered floor to the antique chair, the barbershop is quaint, cozy and comfortable. The walls are lined with various memorabilia: black and white photos from around town, Astros fan gear, and a six-foot-long rattlesnake skin tacked to a Mexican blanket. An aquarium sits in one corner surrounded by a bench on one wall to its left and chairs its right. Mirrors on the wall give you the fore-and-aft view of the cranial work area.

In the corner opposite the fish tank is a bluetooth-enabled speaker. If you didn't know it was there, or if you don't look for things like this, you might miss it. It's not big, maybe the size of a shoe box, and rather plain and unobtrusive. But once you see it, you would recognize it for what it is: a speaker, made for playing music. Blues, jazz, southern rock, classic rock, country, old stuff, newer stuff, really old stuff - it all has a place in the barbershop; it all has a rotation in his playlist. Depending on the day, or how he feels, any - or all - genre of music will be heard in the barber shop. 

That's in large part because Bill is a musician himself, his avocation in harmony with his vocation, singing and playing - guitar mostly - weekends and evenings. He's in a duet with one other good ol' boy. He's part of a larger band, too, playing mostly cover songs. And he even plays in his parish polka band, picking a simple two best bass line for the brass to follow. While he cuts, he sometimes sings along, a phrase here a line there, now and then an entire chorus. Whether singing or talking, his voice is smooth,  like a very nice bottle of Wild Turkey 101 or a summer gin & tonic. His vocal edges have been polished by years of singing to the crowds and talking to the men in his chair. Like most good ol' boy barbers, he's a good listener and a good talker - he knows when and how to contribute to a story, and he knows when to wait and see where the story goes. 

I watched him working today, snipping a flying hair or two with scissors, buzzing his clippers around the greying man's temples and neckline. A smile played across his face, stretching his mustache and beard; his eyes twinkled with pleasure of the moment. This is a man who enjoys his vocation, who enjoys people, and who enjoys the simple things in an of life. Bill can talk sports, religion, weather, politics - local, state or national. The Astros are his favorite past-time and he can cite chapter and verse of stats, salaries and league standings. The ancient poet, Ovid, once quipped "The mind makes the man." Maybe so, but so does joy and joy abounds in the barbershop. A laugh escaped through his lips while his customer told a story about something he had seen or heard earlier in the day. When Bill finished, he stowed his gear, unbuttoned the apron and, with a flourish, flipped it off the customer's lap. Hair rained down onto the floor as the customer stood, fished cash from his wallet, nodded at me - hey, how's it going? - and walked out the door. 

Music...music is everywhere. Watching him get a shop broom, sweep up the hair and push it across the floor into a pile for pick up later, he reminded me of the shoeshine boy: 

A little shoe-shine boy, he never gets low-down

But he's got the dirtiest job in town!

Bending low at the peoples' feet

On a windy corner of a dirty street

Well, I asked him while she shined my shoes

How'd he keep from getting the blues

He grinned as he raised his little head

He popped a shoe-shine rag, and he said

Get rhythm...

I slouched into the seat, hunkering down. I have to hunker. If I sat up straight, even with the chair as low as possible, he couldn't see the top of my head. With the image of the shoe-shine boy in my head, I asked Bill if he always has a smile. No, he said. Well, you usually have a smile; I don't know if I've ever seen you without a grin, I said. He was quiet for a minute then said that no, there are lots of things that don't make me smile. He mentioned a political documentary about the Demopublicans and the Republicrats (I'm kidding...I made that part up). I wasn't smiling when we left the theater, he said. Our government, our society...his voice trailed off, the aposiopesis hanging in silence like sheets on the line on a still, summer day. A moment later, he picked back up and spoke of how we're supposed to have hope, but then he scoffed and said "but in what?" We spoke of our hope that is in Christ Jesus. A Christian's hope isn't just the "meh" of hoping a politician does what we think is right, or the 'Stros win another, or - I shot a glance at him - if the barber cuts the hair right. A Christian's hope is an exclamation point, an absolute certainty that in Him there will be an eternal victory, already ours yet awaiting its full consummation. 

And then he smiled and said, thanks - I needed that reminder. 

Then he got busy again. He clipped and he snipped, a little here and a little there. A couple passes with the clippers - number four on top and number two on the sides - and a quick buzz around the ears and neckline and it was done. I'm now in the category where it's no longer about what to take off the top but what to leave on the sides. I asked if I qualify for a low volume discount. He chuckled. Not yet, he said, maybe next time. After trimming my beard and mustache, he opened the neck of the apron and used a small brush to sweep the hair from my face and neck. All done, he said. He removed the apron with a flourish that would have made a bullfighter proud:  I was set free. 

How's it look, he asked. I put my glasses back on and looked into the mirror in front of me to see what was behind me. You did the best you could with what you had to work with, I said. He laughed. I handed him the cash and we shook hands. 

'Preciate it, Bill, I said. 

See you next time, he said. 

As I walked out the door, I thought I heard something. Was that Johnny Cash singing? 

Get rhythm!

When you get the blues!

C'mon get rhythm!

When you get the blues!

It only costs a dime, just a nickel a shoe

It does a million dollars worth of good for you

Get rhythm!

When you get the blues!