But there was something to be said for the large barbershop in Egleston Square that I was forced to frequent in my youth – about every other Saturday. Across the street from the old firehouse and Egleston Theater and in between a First National and bakery, it was the site of forced attendance, coupled with the mandatory confessions at nearby Our Lady of Lourdes, that infringed on many of my Saturday activities.

The shop with its four barber chairs, owned by Tony and his son Sudsy, tended to become crowded on Saturday mornings. The haircuts took longer, as the local bookie made his frequent appearances in the store to clandestinely converse with the barbers on duty. Plus, it seemed that the haircuts took longer, with handheld massagers that massaged the scalp and shoulders. Then there was the application of shaving cream on the back of the neck to smooth the movement of the single-edged razor – honed on a hanging leather strop – that would be used to get rid of persistent stubble (but no hot towels unless one paid for a full facial shave).

There was no hair dryer to blow off errant, cut hairs: they were all supposed to be caught by the large sheet-like apron spread over the lap. As with things in the 1950s, the price was much lower and a quarter usually sufficed as a tip from a kid like me.

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Only once as a kid did I go to the barber at the corner of Washington Street and Chilcott Place: the waiting at Tony’s was going to be too long, judging from the number of people waiting. This other barber had a reputation of being mean, and that he was – such as the time I fidgeted too much in his chair and he held the hot clippers to my neck, prompting a loud “Owww!” from me, after which I remained still as a corpse.

Yeah, some fond and not so fond memories about the ol’ barbershop.