A Generation Thing

Name: Mario Accialioli

Location: Cosmos Barber Shop, Montreal

When I was a child in Italy, I would go to the local barbershop after school and just sit there. I loved the smells, the feel, and I knew what I wanted to do when I grew older, but then my father moved our family to Canada, and it wasn’t that simple.

Here, in Montreal, you need a permit to be a barber, so I took a job in a garment factory, going to barber school at night. After a year, I got the permit and took a job working right here, in this very space on Darlington Street. That was in 1966.

The owner was a Greek gentleman by the name of Cosmos. I worked here for four years before he offered to sell it to me. My brother, Eduardo, and I decided to take the leap and buy it.

There weren’t a lot of Jewish clients then, the neighborhood looked nothing like it does today. Many things have changed. The price when we started was $1.75 for a haircut, and today it’s fifteen dollars. But rent was around $150 a month, back then, on this very same space.

Over the years, the clientele changed with the neighborhood. Today, I would say 60 percent of my business comes from the Orthodox community. I remember when the first few rabbis came in here to explain the laws about where I can cut and where I’m not allowed to cut. Today, I’m an expert. The days when my Jewish customers aren’t permitted to get haircuts are very quiet, and the week before Passover is the most difficult one of all for us. I come early, and generally I don’t stop until night. I might go to the back and grab a banana, but that’s it – no lunch breaks, no phone calls, no stepping outside for fresh air. We try to be prepared.

I love working with the Jewish community. For one thing, in 53 years, no one ever made an issue over money – they pay, they’re generous and easy. No one ever fought about paying or tried stealing. I love the family feel, siblings come together, parents sit here and watch the haircuts, it’s a whole event.

I have many three-generation clients, and even a few families whose haircuts I’ve handled for four generations. It’s very special.

Last year, my brother had to stop working because of health problems, so I’m here alone. It’s lonely without him, but I love what I do and feel blessed.

Head Start

Name: Shimon Chiav

Location: Bnei Brak

I’m a fourth-generation barber, so there was never any question that I’d do anything else. My father, may he live and be well, is over 70 and still working. I was 16 when he let me give my first professional haircut to a client, and I’m still here in Bnei Brak where I started out.

I also do a lot of house calls for community activists and public figures. Not that it’s beneath their dignity to be seen in a barbershop – it was my idea to come to them. It started when a litvish MK was once getting his hair cut and a few Shas activists who were waiting in line started attacking him with questions. Another time, a Shas MK was getting his hair cut and some litvish avreichim began to pester him. So, I started offering to come to them – it’s more dignified and a better arrangement for everyone.

Because I’m considered more of a ‘high-end’ barber, I get a lot of bochurim in shidduchim who want a certain look. It’s not like we have very deep discussions here in the barbershop, but since I see them every couple of months, I do get to know them, where they learn and other things about their lives. Now, it might seem counterintuitive to glean information about a bochur from a barber, but I’m a pretty popular source of information. I may not know how he learns, but the prospective shver will usually ask me about things like the bochur’s derech eretz. The truth is, that is definitely something you can tell from the way a person waits in line. That’s when you see his true colors.

I’m always happy to provide service, but sometimes, I find myself crossing my own red lines. Because what I’m seeing a lot of these days is bochurim coming in and asking me to shorten their peyos, shave off their beards, or give them a more modern haircut than what they’ve had. Look, I’m a service-provider. My job is to give the customer what he asks for. But I’m also a father, and I understand what parents go through when their teenage son decides to cast off the exterior trappings of his identity. So, I make conversation, try and figure out who this bochur is, where he learns, and who his parents are. Most of the time, I can’t persuade him to change his plans – by the time he comes to me, his mind is made up, and I’m the final step in a long process. Sometimes I tell them, ‘Listen, instead of cutting your peyos, let’s just thin them this time.’ Or I’ll think of other solutions, such as trimming their beard instead of shaving it off altogether. With the younger bochurim, this sometimes works, but after 18 or 19, no one’s interested in what I have to say.

It’s pretty ironic, because years before these same bochurim probably came to me to make them peyos at their chalakah. I want them to cherish their peyos, so I try to keep the atmosphere happy, even though the children are often exhausted after having made the rounds to all the rabbanim of Bnei Brak who each cut off one curl. Most often, they’re terrified. They don’t know me, they don’t know what a barbershop is. They think I’m a doctor who’s going to give them an injection or hurt them in some way.

As a way of breaking the ice, I usually ask the parents to wash the child’s hair at the special sink. Then, I go over to the child and begin to talk to him and gain his trust by giving him candies and prizes. After the child relaxes, I ask him, ‘Who would you like to cut your hair? Me? Or Abba or Ima?’ The child almost always points to his father, and I’ll say, ‘You’re right. Your Abba should cut your hair, so I’ll just teach your Abba how to do it.’ Then I give the scissors to the father, who cuts off the ponytail. The child sees that nothing happened and is already much more at ease. At this point, I’ll usually turn the chair around so that he won’t see himself in the mirror and won’t get scared.

There are three-year-olds, and there are also 93-year-olds. I remember when Rav Aharon Leib Steinman ztz’l graced the barbershop with his presence. Rav Steinman was in his nineties at the time, and his gabbai called me and asked to make an appointment for the Rav in the evening. I made sure that no one would be in the shop at that time, but as it happened, one bochur was still there. As soon as the Rav walked in, I stood up, shook his hand, and invited him to sit down in the barber’s chair. The bochur also stood up and shook his hand, and the two began talking while I went to prepare what I needed. When I came back, I saw the Rav was still standing. I asked him to sit down, but Rav Steinman shook his head and pointed to the bochur. ‘He was before me.’

‘Kevod HaRav, he can wait!’ I said, shocked. But the Rav wouldn’t hear of it. ‘It’s bittul Torah, and he’s surely tired. Finish him first; I can wait a few minutes.’

Court Coiffure

Name: Baruch Shriki

location: Tzefas

Until two decades ago, I lived in Morocco, where I served as the official court barber of the king as well as the barber for the kehillah. Sure, it was a very lucrative and honorable position, and it’s interesting that the Moroccan royal family has a tradition to use specifically a Jewish barber. It started several hundred years ago when the royal barber, a Muslim, attempted to assassinate the king. Since then, the royal family only trusts it scalps to Jews. It’s actually quite an honor. When the court barber enters the royal court, he’s escorted by the palace guards complete with an orchestra playing, and he’s paid with gold coins.

After King Hassan died in 1999, I made aliyah and settled in Jerusalem. Of course, I didn’t earn as much as I did working for the king, but I’ve had the wonderful opportunity to serve real Jewish royalty, gedolei Yisrael, including Maran Rav Ovadia Yosef ztz’l. For a time, I was also commissioned to serve ‘King Bibi’ and other MKs.

Now I’m in Tzefat where I’ve reopened my shop for the local residents. None of them are kings or Knesset members, but there’s nothing like all those little kings – all the chalakah children that come to nearby Meron on Lag B’omer where I give them their first haircut.

I think the child should remember that first haircut as a positive experience and not a trauma, but it’s a big balagan in Meron, and you can’t always give the perfect haircut, and some of those little fellows get overwhelmed and hysterical. So, I bring along a white pony and a fancy Moroccan costume. The children know that after the haircut, they’ll get a pony ride. They’re thrilled, and I’m grateful that I can be part of all these family celebrations.

Home Front

Name: Chaim Hirsch

Location: London

My main job is in property maintenance, but I’ve been doing haircuts for over 20 years. My father, Reb Hirsch Leib, did it for family and friends, and he would call me over and say ‘kuk tzi.’ He never dreamed that that quick glance I’d give purely to please him would end up leading to a profitable business that actually turned into the down payment for my new house on Canvey Island, a new kehillah an hour’s drive from Stamford Hill, where I still work every day.

My specialty is my mobile service – going to people’s homes. Chassidim generally have their haircuts by a shamash at the mikveh which can become chaotic on Erev Shabbos and Yom Tom. At home, they have calm, personal, timely service. Alternately, the local barbers are not Jewish, and while they might do a professional job and are even experts on the shiur peyah by now, they don’t always have the ‘taam,’ which is why I’m often called to fix a barber’s work. I also provide thorough aftercare – baby powder and a blow-dry – so that the client can go right back to work without the need for even a shower.

Of course, the most challenging customers are chalakah boys. For kids, the shaver can be very ticklish, and I’ve had plenty of struggles. In the beginning of my career, I used to come back every half hour and try again, until I learned to be a little tougher. If bubbles and toys don’t work, I ask the parents if they agree to a little force, which means the parent holds the child in a brace position on their lap. It’s amazing how psychologically the child relaxes and suddenly feels as if it’s the parents getting a haircut, and he’s just sitting on them.

But if a child is ticklish, when I get behind the ears, he might pull up his shoulders and tuck his head in, which basically locks me out. But I’ll finish the job, even if I have to get down on all fours. I’ve even thought about doing a chalakah at night, in the child’s sleep, but I’ve never actually had to resort to it. I did once have a child who was so overtired that he just surrendered as his eyes rolled groggily around.

I understand their fears. They’ve been told they’re having this exciting upsheren, and suddenly this stranger arrives with a virtual toolbox – scissors, combs, a cutting machine, what not. It’s scary. So, I let them get to know the shaver by pressing it on and off, and often that works.

As I’m in my early thirties, I can be the age of the grandsons of some of my clients, so I’m always careful to give them the appropriate respect. I had a longstanding client, an elderly chashuve Yid, who would always inquire about my family. Over the years, he deteriorated to the point where Alzheimerís robbed him completely. It was very painful – like working on a mannequin.

But the saddest encounter I had was when a bochur sat himself in the chair and declared, ‘Take it all off, everything.’ I was at a loss. My prerequisite for any customers is that I don’t touch the shiur peyah. It was before Yom Tov, when I rent a big communal room for a walk-in service, and the room was packed. I told the clearly-hurting bochur to wait till the end. Finally, around midnight, the waiting room emptied out, and again the bochur announced bitterly, ‘Just take it all off!’

My wife brought in some cold Coke, as if preparing for the schmooze that would follow, and we sat down and talked into the wee hours. By 2 a.m., after having let out all his frustration, he saw that it was late and decided he could always return after Yom Tov. He did, but I repeated that I’d do what he wants but I won’t touch the shiur. Reluctantly, he agreed. Sadly, a few weeks later, the shiur too was gone. At least I managed to postpone it a little longer.

Some people have a minhag to burn the peyos so as not to put metal to the peyah, but that leaves a bad smell. The popular alternative for those who are machmir is to use ceramic scissors. Sometimes, people ask for particular cuts or fancy styles, but I make it clear that I’m there to do chassidishe cuts. Still, sometimes I’ll allow myself some fun with adventurous clients, like engraving a palm tree or star on their scalp before the final skim.

Last year for the three days before Shavuos, I was working around the clock, running out before Yom Tov and leaving a floor thickly carpeted with hair. After Yom Tov, I came back to clean up and filled buckets with over 20 liters of compressed hair. People have asked if there is anything ecological to do with all that hair, but the answer is, straight into the garbage. The Ari Hakadosh says that one may not sweep shaven hair into reshus harabim, as it puts both the cutter and the client in danger of illness. It’s true – I once did it, and both the client and I were ill in bed for a few days!’

The biggest differences between a barber and a sheitel macher are that men aren’t big talkers – the most they’ll do is grieve about dandruff and dry skin and that women can leave their sheitels behind and come back later after they’ve been set. In the pre-Yom Tov crush, people have asked, ‘Can I leave my head here and come back later?’

Practice Makes Perfect

Name: Yehudah

location: A bochur at Yeshivas Beer HaTorah (‘Gil’), Beit Shemesh

I stared cutting hair with a home hair cutting machine when I was in yeshivah ketanah. My friends didn’t trust me, though, until I had more experience, so I decided to practice on the Macedonian foreign worker in our yeshivah and offered to give him a free haircut. I cut his hair according to his specifications, and as a finishing touch, shaved the nape of his neck. After I’d finished, I noticed a few stray hairs around his left temple, but what I neglected to notice was that the machine was still switched to the shaving feature. What should have been an easy repair turned out to be a terrible mishap, leaving him with a bald patch right at the top of his head. I was so afraid of what the worker might do to me that I ran away.

But he was actually quite chilled about it. After seeing my mistake, he called me over and said that I should just shave his whole head, joking that this would save him money on the next two or three haircuts.

I guess my friends learned to trust me, because today, I’m the default barber of the yeshivah. I knew I ‘arrived’ when bochurim in shidduchim, and even chassanim, asked me to cut their hair for them. The first time, I admit, I was petrified – the last thing I wanted was to mess up a chassan on his wedding day – but after that first time, I gained a lot of self-confidence.

The main advantage of my in-house service is that no one has to stand in line – the bochurim just come to me when it’s convenient. I know what kind of haircut each bochur wants, and I take only 20 shekels. But I have my rules too. I’m careful never to work during sedorim. I give haircuts only on Fridays after chatzos until Shabbos and on weeknights between 11 and 12:30 at night.

The hanhalah is actually happy about this service as well. The bochurim don’t have to leave yeshivah to get a haircut, and since I also take a very low price, they see it as a chesed for the students. The maggidei shiur haven’t started coming to me yet, but they do send their sons, which is a pretty nice compliment.

Curled To Perfection

Name: Menashe Marzayev

Location: Meah Shearim, Jerusalem

I’ve been in the business for over 50 years. I came to Israel from Russia in the 70s and opened my barbershop in Meah Shearim soon afterward. For some reason, I developed a client base which includes some well-known personalities. The late MK Menachem Porush said that he didn’t trust anyone else, and today, his son Rabbi Meir is also a regular customer. It’s become a family tradition.

I also get a lot of American bochurim and try to figure out the nuances of what they like. You’d think that a regular chassidish haircut would be the easiest, but it’s not the case, because chassidim don’t touch their beard or peyos, so if I cut even a strand of that by mistake, it’s a real problem. You need to know what you’re doing when giving a chassidish haircut, because it needs to be perfectly symmetrical and neat.

Sometimes for chalakahs we get sons of rebbes who follow the custom to bring their child wrapped up in a tallis so he shouldn’t see anything impure on this day. Once the gabbai makes sure that no one else will be in the barbershop, I get the go-ahead. After I finish, they curl his peyos in the particular manner of the specific chassidus, and then they wrap him back up in the tallis and take him home.

I’ve also become a bit of an expert at curling peyos. I show bochurim how to do it right and tell them about natural creams they can use. For those with hair that won’t cooperate, I offer a perm, which has become an accepted practice even among the conservative Yerushalmim.

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 760)