Melissa landed on Sunday night, finally getting home from her trek through Europe. It wasn’t an easy flight home, that’s for sure. Planes were grounded all through Ohio due to high winds, thanks to the coattails of Ike. Instead, she spent several hours on the runway in Washington DC stuck with a screaming kid. After being awake for 35+ hours, I’m sure it felt good for her to be home and sleeping in her own bed.

But alas, in just a few days she must return to the grind, and back to her clients. Melissa’s a hair stylist. Ya know, until she became a hair stylist I always had this preconceived notion about stylists. They were all either gay Frenchmen named “Jean-Luc” or uppity women who smoke cigarettes and drink appletinis. Now why this may be true for some, it doesn’t necessarily apply to my wife. No, I’ve learned over time that being a stylist doesn’t necessarily mean it’s a glamorous life style. For every high rollin’ woman who comes in wanting the latest style, there’s at least a dozen blue haired old ladies, whiney kids, and that one creepy married men who flirts with all the ladies because his wife’s not there to catch him.

You see, I’d never actually been in a “salon” per-say, until we got married. No, instead, I always took the hike down the mountain I grew up on, to a little one room tiny cinderblock building that smelled slightly like kerosene, Barber sol and pomade. It was a place where you always heard the latest about the local high school wrestling team and who’d be arrested the week prior. No, this wasn’t a salon. This was a barbershop. This was Rex’s Barber Shop.

It was the kind of place that you normally wouldn’t stop in, unless someone told you it was okay. If it were a restaurant, the health department would’ve closed it at least 20 years ago. The walls were covered with signs that could be considered offensive to many, disgusting to some but hilarious to those patrons who sat in those chairs. Such notorious signs as “The Happy Fisherman” and “Lucky the Dog”, as well as the infamous “Roadkill Cafe” menu.

There was a mounted bass on the wall that you just had to know that no one there actually caught, but more likely bought it at the annual flea market. It was right next to the hat rack that was just full of old trucker caps, mostly from local little league teams and old body shops. Every now and then you might find one with a union logo, or a World War II Veteran.

It was the kind of place that you heard those dirty jokes as a kid, that still make you blush as an adult. The place where you learned new cuss words you’d never heard before – and phrases that to this day you’re still not quite sure what they mean. Phrases like “Dowitcha?” and “I’ll be a monkey’s uncle…”

It wasn’t the “He-Man Woman Haters” club, but you’d be hard pressed to ever find a woman in there… unless of course you’re not counting the woman from the little bait shop/convenient store/u-haul dealership/taxidermy shop next door. I think she only came around because she could drink all the men under the table and spit chewing tobacco much further.

Rex’s wasn’t just a barbershop. It was an institution. Men of all generations sat there, waiting for at least an hour for their cut. No hairstyles, just a hair cut. For $5.00. It seemed you could always tell who in your high school went to Rex’s. We all had the same haircut. A 2 guard on the sides, 3 on top. I’m not sure if Rex even knew how to do anything else, I’m not sure anyone ever asked.

Every now and then, you’d get those comments that could only come from a small town barber.

“Want me to shave a Playboy bunny in it?”

Of course the little boys eyes would light up, and of course Rex never would. Nope, that wasn’t Rex.

Rex was a talker, a funny guy. I’ll never forget him telling me about the time he went Christmas shopping for his wife. As he put it “she’s a BIG woman”. Well, ol’ Rex had never heard of plus sized clothes, instead he bought his wife a bunch of maternity clothes and ended up ruining Christmas… and New Years.

Rex saw me grow up. I was there pretty much every two weeks, except for the month of November, when Rex closed shop for hunting season. I guess he figured it’d be easier to close his shop and not turn on that one single light bulb hanging in the middle of the room. He figured it’ be cheaper to not open, since all of his patrons would be in the woods anyway.

But no, Rex watched me grow up. He saw me as a kid learning how to tie my shoes, to a teenager learning how to drive, all the way up to an adult, getting ready to leave home, and West Virginia, for the first time to be with the woman I fell in love with. When he asked me what she did for a living, I laughed a little and said, “Well, Rex, she’s a hair stylist.”

He just chuckled like only he could and said, “Just make sure she knows. 2 on the sides, 3 on the top.”

I don’t quite remember the last time I saw Rex. It’d been a long time at this point. In fact, I’m pretty sure he’d give me the same deal he used to give my dad. The $4.00 haircut… ya know, because he didn’t have to cut as much off of the top.

I know that whenever I have a kid of my own, his mom will more than likely give him his first hair cut… but I’m pretty sure his dad and his grandpa will take him to Rex’s for his first buzz cut, first time seeing the “Happy Fisherman”, and first dirty joke.

Just don’t tell his mom.