Coral Gables Historical Archive
The Times
Thursday, February 9, 1961, page 32 (of 80)
The page
The text of this pageRead by computer from the scan, so some words may be wrong. The page picture is the original.
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The Father's Duty Continued from page 7
Cartier's and pick up a diamond bracelet for your mother, and then we'll go over and get a new Citroen for the nurse. There is no telling where we'll stop." The next morning, bright and early, the two of us took off for the barber. He insisted on going to the same barber I always went to. My barber, for some reason I've never been able to figure out, only takes people on appointment. It's harder to get into his shop than it is to get into Yale, and it's almost as expensive. When we walked in the barber was surprised to see us. "You didn't make an appointment," he said. "It's not for me; it's for my son." The barber went white. "I don't go into the Algerian section at night, I don't drive over fifty miles an hour in a car, I don't start fights in cafes, and I don't cut children's hair." I slipped him five hundred francs. "Make an exception. Who will ever know?" "All the neighbors will know. The doctor who looks at the teeth-marks in my arm will know. The man who sits in this chair after the boy will know. Please take him somewhere else." I slipped him another five hundred francs. "I've never asked you for anything before. I'll send you customers, I'll print your picture in the paper, I'll wash your car. Please." "All right, but only this one time." Before the barber could change his mind I grabbed the boy and stuck him in the chair. The minute the barber pulled out his scissors the boy let out a scream which brought three bus loads of Gardes Republicaines who thought the paratroopers had landed in Paris. The boy fought as well as a paratrooper, and the barber couldn't get near his head. "Perhaps," the barber said, "if you left he would calm down. Come back in a half-hour." I grabbed a copy of La Vie Parisienne and went to a sidewalk cafe to look at the dirty pictures. In a half-hour I returned. The barber was just finishing the job. The boy was smiling and seemed to be very happy. "How did you tame him?" "I have a way with children," the barber said. I helped the boy on with his jacket, and then I went to pay the bill. It came to 2,100 francs ($5.00). "Twenty-one hundred francs?" I shouted. Three more Garde Republicaine trucks pulled up outside. "For just a haircut?" "For a haircut and a shampoo and eau de Cologne, and a massage, and hair oil." "Who told you to give him all that?" "I asked him if he wanted them and he said he did. What could I do?" I dragged the boy out of the shop and he led me to a toy shop. Then I had to buy him an orange juice. The haircut with the toys and extras cost me exactly $10.50. It's a point the child psychiatrists forgot to mention. The other point is, at those prices, if there is a choice between the child or the father becoming a manic-depressive over haircuts, I think the head of the family must be spared. Reprinted by permission of The World Publishing Company from "Don't Forget To Write" by Art Buchwald. Copyright © 1958, 1959, 1960 by Art Buchwald.