Joe's Clip Jointg

 Joe’s Clip Joint

Growing up, most of my haircuts were mom specials and involved a trip to the kitchen, a plastic apron, and her idea of what my hair should look like. On very rare occasions I got a trip to a real barber shop to sit on a booster seat to get trimmed. When I got older, I broke down and paid 50 cents to get my hair cut by a professional and to get what I wanted.

While I was in high school I worked for Royal Castle, a local burger chain, and one of my assignments had me at their location on Biscayne Blvd across from the 8600 Club. Around the corner from that Royal Castle was Joe’s Clip Joint, a classic American barber shop.

Joe’s was on a side street in a private house where the large front porch area had been converted into a barber shop with three chairs. Each chair had an assigned barber, Joe, Al, and Jim. Joe actually lived in the house and he had hired Al and Jim. They were all regulars at the Royal Castle.

As you walked into Joe’s, Jim’s chair was directly in front of you and to his left was Al then Joe. The waiting area filled the rest of the space of that long single room. Chairs and the occasional table were lined along two walls. There were plenty of magazines and comic books to pass the time. In the far corner of that room was a table with the latest Playboys that were off limits to the kids. If they wanted sexy pictures they had to dream about Veronica or Betty in an Archie comic or hope that the current National Geographic had visited a remote clothing optional tribe deep in some jungle.

Above the door as you walked in was a stuffed flying duck that would get decorated for the current holiday. On Halloween the duck would be riding a broom wearing a black pointed hat. At Christmas, the duck would be sporting a white beard, red cap, and two small ball ornaments hung between his legs. Yes, a female witch then Santa, this duck was an early member of the collective that would later sport an acronym longer than the word duck.

Next to the cross-dressing duck was a clock that ran backwards. It showed the correct time but with the numbers ordered counterclockwise. You could always count on hearing the latest jokes amidst the regular male-centric banter. The haircuts back then were simple. Square or tapered backs and how long do you want your sideburns.

When they took their lunch breaks, the barbers would often visit my nearby burger emporium for coffee, eggs, burgers, fresh OJ, a birch beer, bowl of soup, chili, doughnuts, or a Danish. I always tried to treat them to a few extras when I could. After I left for college and later the Navy, I tried to make it a point to visit the gang at Joe’s when I was around. Years later, I remember driving by to find the Joe’s Clip Joint sign had been changed and some other business had taken over. It made me sad, I miss those guys.

Today I go to The Barber Shop. That’s it, that’s the name. Nothing creative. I’ve been going there for almost 40 years, and I have no connection with anything or anybody. At first, I would just take whoever was available before settling on Orlando. He was at least bilingual and could carry on a conversation. His chair was also next to Jeff’s.

Jeff was one of two native English speakers in a shop of ten barbers, and he dominated the conversation on that end of the room. Jeff worked by appointment only, so I enjoyed Orlando's more flexible schedule. Occasionally I would get Joan. Joan was the second native English speaker. She was an attractive country gal, had a nice figure, and gave lousy haircuts.

The only difficulty I had with Orlando was that he was a heavy smoker. His frequent outside breaks had him coming back smelling strongly of cigarette smoke. He was a nice guy and he kept up with the Dolphins when they played and bragged that he had once cut Dan Marino’s hair when he worked at another shop. Then one day Orlando wasn’t there. He had been fighting lung cancer and lost.

I finally agreed to use Jeff and would call for an appointment. He was my barber for many years. He was an interesting character. Never married but always complained about whatever girlfriend he was dating. He was a skydiver on his off days and had worked as an extra when Miami briefly became the southeast L.A. for movies and tv shows. I found an obscure DVD copy of a movie in which he appeared for his fifteen seconds of fame and bought it for him. Then one day, Jeff’s chair was vacant. He had died of a heart attack.

Forty years ago, each barber had his (or her) name painted at the top of the mirror near their chair. Now there is so much churn of personnel they don’t bother with names on mirrors. Only one barber that I recognize has been there more than a couple of years. He is the one who told me of Jeff’s passing. Most of the barbers have been there less than a year.

The conversation in the shop is all in Spanish and most of the barbers speak little or no English. The tv is locked on a Spanish station playing whatever sport is current. I take whoever is available, tell them número cuatro en los lados. I then sit back and get the same haircut my mother used to give me. The only difference is that, instead of free, that new haircut costs me $30.

I’d pay ten times that to have a mom haircut once again and almost as much for one from Joe, Al, or Jim.