A Barber Shop and an Air Compressor

Once every four or five weeks, my jersey-born husband drives his juiced up Trans Am into town and pulls over to the only barber shop within miles of our home. Right smack dab downtown, on the corner of School and Main. He walks in fuzzy and walks out coiffed to perfection. And that procedure includes an air compressor.

After hearty conversation of summer heat and the neighbors found on the police blotter, the cut is done and it all comes down to the 'blow'. She grabs the long blue hose and lets him have it, blowing microscopic pieces of hair from one end of the parlor to the other. People sit and read their papers, unshaken by the blast of air that inevitably whisks right by their ears. They pay it no never mind and wait for their turn in the chair.

The South is an amazing place. I forget that it runs through my veins, sometimes right up until the moment an air compressor becomes part of an unconventional salon experience. We're weird, I get it, but we're solid, too. We carry our traditions out the door and hope no one flinches when we shout our 'y'all' and 'ya hear' on a daily basis. Come to think of it, those words warm my heart, just like remembering the smell of country ham cooking and fluffy biscuits baking in my mama's kitchen.

I try to convince my husband that he is truly a Southerner now. After almost 20 years of being in the thick of our drawl, you can't help but become one of 'us'. Every now and then, he'll say my version of  'why' - always a multi-syllable word - and that confirms my suspicions. He'll try to deny it, but I know better.

Another reason I know for sure? I'll bet my life that his hair cuts will always include an air compressor.