Every time that I drive through the heart of downtown Jesup, my mind scrolls through the 1950s and 1960s. I can see the long-gone storefronts and the faces inside the establishments of my youth.
I can hear familiar voices, especially Ralph Grantham’s.
When the tall barber nodded in my direction and said, “Next,” I knew it was time to climb into his chair. I will never forget the day that he said, “This time, buddy, you don’t need to sit on the board.” I felt almost grown, not having to sit on the booster board across the arms of his chair.
For a kid, Jack’s Barber Shop on Cherry Street was as close to a man’s world as you could get. I can still hear the buzz of the clippers and smell the butch wax and Clubman talc. But what I liked most was the atmosphere, the chatter between the barbers and the men who were waiting in wooden school-auditorium chairs along the wall.
Proprietor Jack Jackson was on the left. My barber, Ralph, was in the middle. And Herbert Dent—known as the “new man”—was next to the plate glass window.
When I was about 18, I went to the shop for a haircut. Ralph wasn’t there. I asked Herbert to “lower my ears.” And on a whim, I asked for a shave. For years, I had watched Jack, Ralph and Herbert wrap hot towels around the faces of men. I thought my time had arrived. Herbert’s straight razor didn’t get much whisker resistance on my face. If he was snickering, I didn’t hear it.
But I digress.
Jack’s Barber Shop was also where I got my first business-world rejection. I haven’t forgotten that, either. I had dreamed about being the shop’s shoe-shine boy. There were air conditioning and a Coca-Cola machine in the backroom, behind the curtain. I imagined how glorious it would be, shining shoes and listening to the men banter back and forth.
By the time that I was in the second grade, Big Dink had taught me the art of making a cotton shine rag pop. I was ready for the Kiwi-polish-and-horsehair-brush big-time in Jack’s. I had heard men in the shine chair bark, “Watch the socks!” I knew to be careful, especially with the liquid sole and heel dressing.
One Saturday morning, after a buzz cut by Ralph, I decided to approach Jack—Mr. Jackson, of course—and ask him for a job. Without stopping the snipping of his scissors, he nodded in the direction of the shine stand and said, “Sorry, son, I’ve already got a shoe-shine boy.”
Talk to men my age, and they can rattle off their barbershop stories. I have Screven friends who made weekly pilgrimages to Jewell Brinkley’s for their dollar haircuts. He was famous for “holding court” and working the crowd where men were waiting for their turn to get a nod and hear “next.”
One of Jewell’s favorite antics was to tease young boys. As he was brushing off the clippings from a lad’s shoulders, he’d wink at the other men and ask, “OK, son, I’ve got some smell ’um here. Do you want gal bait or coon pee?” Most 10-year-old boys would never say that they had a girlfriend. So, they left Jewell’s thinking they smelled like raccoon urine.
But it was really “gal bait.”
Memories are my happy place.
For my 40th birthday, Big Dink bought and restored Jack Jackson’s 1900-vintage barber’s chair. It’s a treasure that occupies a corner of my office. For my 77th birthday, I climbed into it and leaned back.
When I closed my eyes, I was on Cherry Street—my Memory Lane—and stepping into Jack’s Barber Shop.
dnesmith@cninewspapers.com
