Depot Barber Shop

A real-​deal barbershop, my husband got a shave and a haircut here when we were in town. He came back clean shaven, and a happy customer.

Once a month, I go look at the heart of America. I watch the best portions of this country, distilled down into something that leaves me feeling refreshed and hopeful for the future. I pay twenty bucks for this privilege, and in return I come out with my cheeks stinging slightly and my hair in a tight buzz.
The best part of America, you see, is my barber, who offers a full shave, a haircut, and good conversation for twelve dollars total.
I go to the Depot Barber Shop in Olmstead Falls, Ohio, which is set squarely in the midst of the friendliest little group of shops that I’ve ever seen. The shops are all hand-​chosen by a local realtor to be quirky and charming, and so you have these low-​rent quilt shops and scent shops and an apiary and a Russian Tea Room all within walking distance of each other.
The people who run the shops are, to a man, affable. They smile when you walk in through their door, and say «Hello» without the slightest trace of that artificial «Hi I have been conditioned by the sales manual that I must greet you within thirty seconds of your entrance.» No, they’re relaxed; they want you to buy their stuff, of course, but they’re just as happy for the company. If you want, you can chat.
You usually buy something anyway. It’s a good business.
The Depot Barber Shop is, as I said, in the center of it all, and if you go on a Saturday there are two barbers and a long line of customers. You’re going to be waiting for a half-​hour to get your hair trimmed, but it’s a full-​service job; you get your hair sculpted, you get your eyebrows trimmed, they shave the back of your neck with a straight razor, they even snip the hairs in your nose.
If you want — and I always do — they’ll lean you back in the chair and give you a full, straight-​razor shave from chin to ears. And again, they do a solid job; first they rub hot lather into your cheeks and wrap a steaming towel around your head so that your nose is sticking out the tip. Then, after your pores are opened, they wipe off the lather and lather you up again, then slowly shave every bit of your face from every angle.
I thought I knew how to shave. These guys go at you from every angle, tracing the grain of your skin to slice off every last hair, sometimes going over the same segment three or four times with that rrsk rrsk rrsk sound of whiskers being ground off. They go at your mustache and goatee with the tiniest of trimmers, shaping your beard to fit your face with geometric precision.
And it’s all done with humor, too. When you sit down, you’re going to get a hundred old jokes on how he hopes you’re wearing a red shirt, or «Don’t worry, this won’t hurt me a bit,» or «So did you feel like donating blood today? ‘Cause, you know, you might…»
When they’re finished, your cheeks are baby-​smooth. It’s astonishing; I hadn’t been that fresh since before I started growing stubble. And they slap some astringent onto you, then put some powder on, and you feel like a new man.
This will cost you — or, I should say, it costs me — all of twelve dollars. The sign on the wall says «Haircuts — twelve dollars,» but the shave always seems to be part of the deal even though it takes twice as long.
I just give them a twenty and tell him to keep the change. You should, too.