Two Face the Barber

Andrew clung to me, clutching his Batman, as we walked toward the Barber shop.  It was in Deerfield, across from the railroad tracks.  Tommy tried to keep up next to us; a brave sidekick oblivious to the perils that lay ahead. 

It was Andrew's first haircut (from anyone other than me) and he was 6 years old.  He didn't know what to expect, but I said it was going to be fun; that he'd get to sit up high on the red leather chair.  And that it would all be perfectly harmless.

The tiny place was bustling on that first Saturday morning; crowded with old men getting their nose and ear hair clipped; reading magazines and newspapers.  

When we stepped inside it might as well have been a busy cowboy saloon crowded with outlaws, filled with smoke and hats and big leather boots.   Three barbers were lined up in a row, industriously snipping and buzzing away.   Tommy climbed up into one of the metal chairs that stood against the wall for a better view.   Andrew gripped tighter and said "Dad let's go - please."  

The dirty black and grey hair clippings that littered the floor were scary enough by themselves.  I looked at Andrew's silky blonde hair and felt a knot in my stomach. 

One of the barbers, an older man, looked at the three of us and said, "All of you?"  I shook my head and said, "No, just him."  Andrew started to cry.  "I want to go."   Tommy had now climbed up precariously on the chair for a better look at the tool calendars.  Maybe leaving wasn't such a bad idea...

One guy noticed our situation.   As he finished with his customer, he said, "You like Batman?"   Andrew looked up and nodded his head.   The man who had asked was a big guy, wearing a light blue smock, open to a red flannel shirt.  But his face was startling - he had a huge purple birth mark that covered half of it.  

When Andrew saw him, he dug his head into my shoulder.  "Oh no, it's Two Face."   A few people overheard and smiled.

Two Face, Batman's arch enemy, had been found, and he was here waiting to cut Andrew's hair on our very first trip to a barbershop.  Great. 

"Look," the barber said to me, "I understand, that happens a lot.  It's really OK, he can wait for one of the other guys."

"It's just that this is his first time," I apologized, "and he is a little scared."  So he motioned another customer up to the chair.  Andrew waited for someone else.  When it was finally his turn, I settled him up and on to the booster.  His face scrunched and reddened and tears trickled down his cheeks.   In the end, I sat in the chair holding him, and the barber finished a very hurried job.  Blonde hair fluttered to the floor among the other clippings like feathers falling on lava rocks.

Two Face met us at the door with suckers.  He said his name was Russ, and he told Andrew that he looked great and asked us to come back next time.  We hurried out, our suckers coated with hair clippings.  Andrew told me he never wanted to go back.  Except we did.

A few trips later, Russ was the only barber there, so Andrew bravely but reluctantly climbed into his chair.  And we began to know that Two-Face wasn't what he seemed.  Between clippings, he'd reach over and show off a picture of himself catching a muskie or bass on a fishing trip.  Or he'd let Andrew hold models of cars or motorcycles he liked and kept in the shop.  There were many pictures of a carefree Russ riding his motorcycle in Wisconsin. 

And he'd talk to Andrew about Batman; his favorite characters and which ones he had at home.  Russ said he thought it was cool that the boys called him "Two Face".   Eventually, Russ became their favorite and only barber.   They'd wait patiently for him, pointing at the pictures and models, discussing Russ's great adventures.  He had won them over.

Mysteriously, we also saw him at church.  He was sometimes hard to recognize in his Sunday clothes.  But he'd turn, and he was undeniably Russ.  "Dad", they'd say, "Two Face is over there, see him?"

One Saturday morning, when Andrew was 11, we made our way over to the barber shop.  We walked in and looked around, not seeing him.  It was very quiet. ""We have an apointment with Russ," I said, as we sat down.

The other two Barbers looked at each other, and then at us, solemnly.  "Sorry," one said to us, "Russ won't be in today.  There was an accident last night and he passed away."   They didn't even asked if the boys still wanted a haircut.  They must have known - there was no one else that could do it. 

And so, Two Face slipped out of our lives.  He felt stolen from us.  He had met his tragic end on his motorcycle, his hair streaming behind his head in the wind.  Perhaps we could have imagined he was fleeing from the Batmobile, one side of his face laughing and the other in a sneer. 

But that wasn't the Two Face we knew.  The man we knew was Russ, a gentle giant.  His seemingly cruel face masked a soft-hearted and benign character.  He was a man whose office held toy models of his favorite bikes and cars, and adorned with pictures of him standing in his bass boat. 

When we saw him in the back of the church at Holy Cross, we understood that he really was more than a scary-looking guy with a purple birthmark.  He may have looked like an evil archenemy, but he was really a superhero. 

Thanks, Two-Face.  We really miss you.