Signs of decline

It was George Will, I think, who once opined on his Sunday talking heads show that America’s decline could be traced to the day they installed air conditioning in the Capitol Building.   Before air conditioning, politicians, being the pampered weasels they are, fled the hot muggy D.C. summers for the cooler comforts of home.  So for three months of the year Americans didn’t have to worry about the insane azzclown posse of congress creating mischief.

In her book The War Against Boys, author CHRISTINA HOFF SOMMERS argues the decline of the American male – and by extension the decline of America - began when women began to infiltrate the ranks of school administrators.  With that came an end to dodge ball, finger guns, tag, red rover and every other bastion of male dominance – to include excellence in math and science.

Ann Coulter can name the exact date the decline of America began - August 26, 1920.  That was the day the 19^th Amendment was ratified and gave women the right to vote.  According to Coulter, that is when the largest segment of the American population began to vote with their hearts instead of their heads.  That’s when emotion began to trump the hard cold facts of the world.

My own theory puts the decline of the American male and by extension America to the early 70s.  That’s when mini hair blow dryers became affordable.  They were everywhere.  What happened was that men who here to fore would never had thought of growing their hair longer than could be dried quickly with towel began growing their hair out.  That led to fewer hair cuts and when it was cut, a cut wasn’t enough, the hair had to be “styled.”  Styling led to the decline of the good ol’ American barber shop and the rise to styling salons.

Barber shops, if you can find one, are great places.  I remember walking into the one in my little town as a kid.  Men would be sitting in there talking and smoking cigarettes, oh the humanity!.  Some old guy named “Shorty” or “Bud” was sitting crossed legged in the back chair where he’d been for hours reading every word of the morning paper without comment.  Racing forms were on the table and the conversation of men revolved around whose feed bill was due so they’d better understand who might be given an under the table win.  Local politics and of course a bit of hot small town gossip also dotted the conversation.

But local sports was always the big topic.  The men would all ask how the team was doing, wasn’t the coach’s call in the third quarter of last weeks’ game a bone headed blunder, who was going to win and by how much that weekend, if so and so’s injury was healed up etc.  It wasn’t until much later in life that I figured out that the guys in the barber shop all had a better understanding of what was going on on the team than the players.

But blow dryers gave rise to salons and now a good barber shop is harder to find than Waldo in poorly lit room after a six pack of beer without my glasses.

Today the salons - Big League, Great Clips, etc. - are all run by corporations, staffed by women and the conversation never runs to what an A-hole this politician or sports figure is.  No, you look around and pictures of the “stylists” 3 year old son have replaced the racing forms and the girly calendar is nowhere to be found.  The conversation has nothing to with sports - although the TV’s are all tuned to Sports Center.  Instead it’s about how little Johnny whose picture replaced the racing form, just learned to stop shi**ing himself and the adorable thing he said yesterday.

In the old days you plopped down in Zeke’s chair and without a word and he’d cut your hair.  Today, you never get the same “stylist.”  You have to spend 10 minutes telling them how to cut hair.  When they are done, it’s too long too short or just bad.  So you travel round looking for a good barber shop.

Last week I thought I found one.  It was a single small building with a large window with the words “barber shop” artfully painted in red, white and blue.  It also had an actual rotating barber’s pole out front.  Great!  I walked in.  Field stream magazines were on the table with some old copies of Sports Illustrated.  A Dallas Cowboy calendar was on the wall with the final scores printed in the box.  Oh Heaven!  Then I heard it.  A female voice from the back, “I’ll be right out.”  Damn.

So, I sat down, spent the usual 10 minutes telling her how to cut hair.  During the cut, I was assaulted with questions if I wanted to buy this for her son’s soccer team fundraiser or that for her daughter’s cheer team.  So left with a passable $18 hair cut two tickets for a chicken dinner I couldn’t go to and a $2 candy bar.

The search for a return to American greatness and a good ol’ real barber shop continues.  I believe the two are linked.