Excerpted from my book of photographs:
Wabi-Sabi – Decay… Emptiness…
and Other Ephemeral Beauty
Next to the cemetery, a half a block from the town’s single stoplight, stands the old barbershop. Once sporting a traditional rotating barber pole outside the tiny, two-man shop, the best you could do here, if you had any hope at all of your ears not sticking out after your haircut, was to call ahead and see if the younger of the father-and-son establishment was working that day.
No appointments. Knock the snow off your boots, walk in, squeeze by the table of Bait and Tackle magazines, peruse the wall calendars featuring photos of large game fish at the end of arcing fishing lines anchored by elaborate rods and reels, sit down on one of a half-dozen of the now-prized but then-ignored chrome-and-vinyl chairs, and wait your turn with your father and the other men, as the depths of the old-fashioned gas heater in the corner glowed red behind a row of small yellow flames.
A warm, cozy spot in a vast, cold universe – the coordinates of which, known only to a few remaining time travelers like myself.
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