BARBARIANS

My Grandaddy was a country barber. His credentials included a tall wooden stool for the victim (I mean haircut recipient) to sit on, a pair of hair clippers, and the willingness to whack on people's mane and then just grin at the result. (Grandaddy was what my Dad called "high tempered", so most folks didn't challenge him on much of anything including butchered haircuts)

His "clippers" were a cheap old fashioned implement that worked by squeezing the handles with your hand to move the cutting heads back and forth. Trust me when I tell you that this half cut and half pulled the hair out!

Put a kid on the stool (me), start cutting/pulling his hair (ouch), let the prisoner (me again) start fidgeting, and you got the makings for Grandaddy to start THUMPING you on the noggin by cocking his forefinger behind his thumb and pulling the trigger (I can still feel that pain).

Best I remember, I always ended up looking like a mangy dog that had fallen under a lawn mower?

Grandaddy eventually secured some 'lectric shears for hair cutting. Dad being fascinated by machinery, he had the divine inspiration that he would personally administer my coif with the new fangled equipment (lucky me again). Dad would butcher on one side a bit, then mangle the other side to "even it up". This continued until my head looked like a ripe (hairless) persimmon.

Finally, Dad took the notion to start sending me to the barber in Wright City (and my lucky streak just kept rollin'). The resident barber in WC had a one room tin shack that was just big enough inside for a barber chair and a three drawer filing cabinet. Although his antique rusty "tools" were only exceeded in grunge by his personal hygiene, the public humiliation he administered cost a mere 50 cents.

I'd walk out of that chop shop and look like I fell out of an ugly tree and hit ever branch on the way down. Hell, they had to start tying a pork chop round my neck to get the dog to play with me after my latest "do" scared it so bad one time?

The barber had another interesting challenge in that he was a stone cold alcoholic. During each haircut, his hands would begin to shake to the point that he would be vibrating my head. Periodically he would halt my torture, open a drawer of the file cabinet, take a long pull from his Old Crow whiskey, and then start root plowing my demoralized follicles again.

At some point Dad granted my convict soul mercy and started taking me to Turnertown to see Mr. Wicks. Mr. Wicks was one of the oldest people I had ever seen and his breath always smelled like the peppermint candy he sucked on all day. As a small matter, he was blind as a bat. I'm talking, "couldn't find his rear with either hand" blind. His feeble attempt to make a living was accomplished while cutting unsuspecting victims' hair by "feel". Naturally Dad always sat me in Mr. Wicks' chair because there was no wait to get started (Damned if I can imagine why people weren't lined up?)

From age 13 to 18, I came full circle because the football coaches made us buzz all our hair off down to the scalp (remember the ripe persimmon look?). At least I kinda fit in with the other boys rather than being a reluctant hair fashion maven.

Anywho, all this history to set the framework for my question: Has it occurred to anyone besides me that the term "barber" inevitably derived from the word BARBARIAN?