That's My Story, And I'm Sticking to It!

“Yes Sir, Mr. Kreul, Best Haircut I Ever Had. See You Next Month”

     I was getting a $15 haircut the other day at the local salon, one that I could ill afford in my retirement. Besides the high cost, these pricey stylings only take from 10 to 15 minutes from the time you sit down till the gal (no more men anymore) says, “How’s that?”

     But, my mind is quick of late, and during that 10-minute seating I got to thinking about getting a haircut back when I was a kid. More specifically a trim by Leonard Kreul, proprietor of Kreul’s barbershop.

     Just across the alley from Harry Thompson’s print shop, next to the old Fennimore Opera House stood the building. One side had a barber pole, the other side a Potosi beer sign. Upstairs was a small apartment. It’s possible Leonard and Eddie Hofstetter started in business about the same time in the mid 30s. Ed’s dad, Nick, ran his tavern during the war when he was off in the Marines. Later on in the 60’s Kreuls’ tore the place down and replaced it with a new, modern structure. When construction was completed, both Leonard and Ed were back at the same stand, serving their respective customers. One making you look better and one making you feel better.

     Growing up in the 4th ward, (fondly called the bloody 4th) every place we needed to go down town was located right there at the intersection of highways 18 and 61: Blacksmith shop, harness shop, service station, restaurant, hardware and grocery stores; including a place to get your monthly 35-cent haircut.

     In those days, a trip to the barber needed to be planned carefully, because believe it or not, it could be a several hour affair. To a youngster, those old time barbers seemed to take forever to cut a head of hair. After all, their adult customers expected to get their two-bits worth. They didn’t mind waiting their turn, pursuing those worn magazines, ruminating about the weather and discussing world affairs. When you were old enough to go by yourself, but too young to complain, you didn’t get much of a vote as to the time or day. It was a mother or dad that sent you with that 35 cents.

    Most likely it was a Saturday and you could kiss your ball playing time good by for at least half a day. And, Saturdays were not the time to compete with the farmers coming for their monthly trim. For unless you got there early ---and how could a town kid beat the farmers to town---it would be standing room only. When you entered, Leonard would be snipping away; stop, then count around the room pointing at each waiting customer with his scissors and say,” Your number 10 Tommy.” I’d slump to a place to sit, thinking, Number 10! At the rate you cut Leonard, I’ll be here all day!

     The old guys would begin to talk and pretty soon would forget a kid was there. By pretending you weren’t paying attention---never laugh at their stories, whether you understood them or not---in a little while you’d overhear all kinds of things never mentioned around the supper table at home. You’d definitely be older and wiser beyond your years when this hair cut was over. Then you’d start to look around and wonder what was in all those colored bottles that nobody ever used. You’d think about why everyone smelled the same when they left the shop. How come all of these magazines are so old? And, what if Mike Trainor was going to get a straight razor shave as well--- That will prolong this even longer!

     Meanwhile, Leonard would be clipping away---- smiling and giggling as someone ribbed him or told an outrageous story----and, snip, snip, snipping with those scissors. You see, after an initial run of the electric clippers around your ears, the next 30 minutes or so were spent creating those little, tiny hairs that found their way under the tissue around your neck, down the small of your back, and lodge there, itching until your Saturday bath. If your haircut took place earlier in the week the itching could be intolerable. At least on Saturdays you were just hours away from that bath. This was the big difference between a ‘homemade” haircut and a city one---this 30 minutes of snipping time--- that’s why you paid this big money to experts like Leonard. That homemade type usually looked like someone had used a bowl as a guide but was afraid to tackle the rest.

     Finally, it was my turn. By now I was no longer required to sit on the board across the arms of the barber chair, and Leonard could use the electric rather than the hand clippers. Snip, snip snip and more snipping---For 60 minutes I bet. A time longer than Captain Midnight, Jack Armstrong and the Lone Ranger radio shows all together---and all those little tiny hairs are working their way south. I think that’s enough, Mr. Kreul, I’ve really got to get home for lunch. After an eternity, he takes off the cloth, unties the tissue which allows all the remaining hairs to join their brothers--- you know where. He brushes my neck, and has me look in the mirror for approval.” How’s that,” he says. I reply, “Yes sir, Mr. Kreul, best haircut I ever had. See you next month.” 

     As I remember Fennimore, there were two other active shops in those days; Harold Hazen’s and Mac McCormick’s. Harold’s was sandwiched between Craig’s Drugs and Weber ‘s Jewelry in a narrow space barely wide enough for the chair to swing around. In later