Publisher’s Note
A recent trip to the barbershop reminded me of a song my dad used to sing to me when I was a kid. It went a little something like this:
Well the barbershop was crowded, when a little girl appeared
She said, oh, father please, don’t let that barber shave your beard
It will fill our hearts with sadness; it’ll fill the house with gloom
For father, dear, we need your beard, for sweeping out the room
Like so many of my father’s silly songs, I laughed each time he belted it out. But this one was my definitely my favorite. And, oddly enough, it was about as close as I ever made it to visiting a barbershop while growing up. Typically, I was scooped up and taken to whoever was cutting my mother’s and sister’s hair at the time—which was fine, given that I thought every one of the salon stylists was gorgeous. Not to mention the fact that they devoted their attentions so unselfishly to running their fingers through my hair.
It wasn’t until I settled back into Roman life, after eight years away, that I subsequently found myself settling into a chair at The Forrest Barber Shop. And, oh, what I had been missing. Charming discussions about the weather, crops and
grandchildren swirled about the room, while the smell of aftershave and newspaper overwhelmed my olfactory senses. I could tell in the early going that the regulars made the shop what it was: more of a social occasion than one born of a need to have their “ears lowered.”
The option for a straight-razor shave, complete with hot lather and a steamed towel, was the icing on the cake. It was like I had been accepted into some not-so-secret, but nonetheless ingratiating, men’s club. Nothing glamorous or cutting edge, of course, only buzzing clippers, snipping scissors, and good-old kindly conversation.
If you are asking yourself what all of this has to do with the March issue of V3, the answer is this: life is simply full of little treasures yet to be discovered, and you never know just where you’re going to find them. That said, we believe you’ll find several lurking in the 48 pages following this one.
One treasure I’m glad doesn’t exist, though, is a photo of me sporting a rattail. Thankfully, my mother nipped that one in the bud before I added such a glaring, indefensible scar to my permanent record.
Publisher’s Note
Ian Griffin, Managing Partner
