The barber king

The second time I walked into his shop, he was sitting down, reading the New York Post, drinking coffee, smoking a cigarette.

"Hello, Charley," he said, with an Italian accent. It's an accent that has stayed with him for 50 years since he left Italy and settled in the West End section of Long Branch, New Jersey, where he opened his barber shop in 1964. He's kind of semi-retired these days, working only five mornings a week. He cuts hair by appointment, something I didn't realize the first time I walked off the street and into his shop.

"There's one ahead of you," he told me that first time, although there was no one waiting. A few minutes later, a gentleman even older than the barber walked in slowly, sat in the chair, and spoke softly while his hair was cut. When it was my turn and he began using his scissors on my graying scalp, I acknowledged the Yankees memorabilia in his shop and asked if he had been to the new Yankee Stadium yet.

"I'm a Mets fan," he replied. "I went to their new stadium once. My daughter drove me there. We got there so early, we didn't know what to do. So, we waited and then went inside. It's a nice park. But, the Mets lost."

The second time he cut my hair, we talked about the Jets, Mets and Ryder Cup.

"I got sick Sunday, with the Jets losing so bad, the Mets losing, and the US not winning the Ryder Cup," he moaned. "It made me sick to my stomach, really. And then the Giants lost."

Midway through my haircut, the barber noticed someone approaching his shop. He looked at me, paused briefly, and asked, "Did you make an appointment?"

"I did," I replied. "I called you yesterday morning."

The man the barber had spotted outside seconds earlier walked into the shop, said hello, then sat down to wait his turn. After my haircut was done, with no other customer visible, he got up.

"Not yet, Charlie," the barber told the other man. "There's one ahead of you."

As I walked out, I realized the barber may have double-booked 10:30 appointments for a "Charley" and was probably waiting for the next appointment to arrive. He likely had just enough time to finish his coffee and cigarette and, perhaps, scan a few pages of the newspaper or chat with Charlie.

The barber has not, after all, stayed in business for over 47 years by rushing through haircuts. He is his own boss, king of his castle, one with a red and white and blue striped poll that rolls only when he turns it on.