The Barber Shop

One of the simple pleasures in my life is visiting a neighborhood barber for a haircut from time to time. Part of why I enjoy visiting this particular barber is the decidedly low-tech nature of the place; there are no TV screens, a radio station is barely audible in the background. Instead the most noticeable feature is the smell of shaving cream, as this barber is one of the few that still uses a straight razor blade to shave the back of the neck. As I sat in the barber's chair, I listened to the scratching sounds of the razor against my skin, the short snips of the scissors, the low buzz of clippers, and I realized that in an electronic age, it is this kind of low tech experience that I am often craving. At the end of my haircut, I found myself giving the barber a larger tip not because he was particularly fast and efficient, or he used the latest hair cutting technologies, but rather for exactly the opposite reasons. It was because in an age of the always on and immediate responsiveness measured by the monotonous digital hum of electronic connections, my barber slows life down a bit (something more than a byte) and reminds me of the sounds, textures, and smells of physical existence.