Column: I used to go to a barbershop, but a salon trip left me blushing

My wife Hedy accompanied me the other day to get my bimonthly haircut.

Yeah, I know, I’m hirsute and slovenly, and that’s a lethal combination. I should be getting a trim every four weeks, but I hate going to the — what did we used to call it? — barbershop. Our society today prefers chic sobriquets. Barbershops have become hair salons, and barbers are stylists.

With fancy names come fancy prices.

When I was a teenager living in Costa Mesa, Jack Curtis cut my hair. Curtis’ Barbershop was frequented by men and boys and was located on Newport Boulevard. My dad, my brother and I went to Jack (though never together).

Each visit took about 15 minutes, unless there were several guys there reading Popular Mechanics or Boys’ Life, which was rare.

Jack was no-nonsense and a man of few words. He always asked my dad the same question: “How are the boys?” My brother and I got: “How’s your dad?”

The haircut cost a buck.

Importantly, Jack had a cute daughter who went to my school. The fact that I was her dad’s customer benefited me not one bit. She didn’t have a clue as to who I was.

I did purchase my first car from her in 1962 for $425. It was a muffler-less ’51 Ford and was so sanctified that I anointed it with oil every week.

Nowadays, Hedy is constantly reminding me when it’s time to get my hair cut. It seems my hair grows faster than a Chia Pet.

What happened to that girl of the 1970s who loved to ruffle my curly mane? Guess she grew up. Today she abhors long hair, especially mine.

Hedy has the same lovely locks today that she had when we were wed in 1975 — straight and below her shoulders. I loved her hair then as I do now.

My six granddaughters — ages six to 16 — all wear their hair as Hedy does, straight and long. I’m in heaven.

When I sat down in the salon chair the other day there were seven or eight ladies in the shop — most were 70-plus. It was my first visit to the shop, and I was content to sit quietly and say nothing.

My new barber — er, stylist — started things off by making a thoughtful attempt to get to know me. After establishing my city of residence (Costa Mesa) and occupation (retired), she employed flattery.

“My, you have lovely hair, Jim,” she said. I began to flush. “Doesn’t he have nice hair, ladies?”

Well, I do still have it — hair that is!

Everybody in the shop, including Hedy, was now looking at me and commenting. I just wanted to sit in the chair and go to my happy place: drifting through somnolence to the threshold of hypersomnia.

“I’ve never seen a 70-year-old man with better hair,” said the woman in the next chair.

Wait a minute. We’ve only just met!

“You’ve got more hair than my son,” added another, “and he’s 30 years your junior.”

“And look,” piped another, “it’s a beautiful silver color. I get mine from a bottle!”

Hedy was relishing the conversation from her seat next to the magazine rack.

“I’ve always liked Jim’s hair,” she quipped.

This was getting awkward. I had to say something to express my gratitude and to prove that I hadn’t fallen asleep. They were talking about me as if I weren’t there.

“Well, I inherited it from my dad,” I said lamely. “He always took pride in his hair, and received praise from every corner. He kept it until the day he died.”

That was my clumsy attempt to respond to compliments that I didn’t deserve. It’s not like I’d done anything to earn those plaudits.

“Well, you should be proud, honey,” cooed an 87-year-old lady wearing a tinfoil beanie and sitting next to a sink. I feared she might, at any moment, spontaneously combust.

“It’s about the only physical attribute I still possess,” I added.

Too much information.

Alas, this wasn’t Curtis’ Barbershop.

JIM CARNETT, who lives in Costa Mesa, worked for Orange Coast College for 37 years.