I grew up in the villages of Burgessville and Norwich, moved to London in 1968 to attend the University of Western Ontario, am a small town boy to this day and feel right at home in Wortley Village.
My house on Cathcart St. is a few blocks away from my bank and my ever-declining balance, a coffee shop or two, grocery, hardware and drug store, bakery, gift shops and pretty good pub restaurants.
If I want my hair done up special there are many stylists within a stones throw.
In Norwich there were at least four barbers who had equal opportunity to cut my hair for 25 or 50 cents if my Dad was too busy.
Grumpy Bill was the first that springs to mind.
Grumpy had a small shop on Stover St., a board he placed across the arms of his chair upon which I would be told to sit, a black and white TV tuned in to Mighty Mouse cartoons on Saturday morning and a personality that would peel paint off a front door.
Every time I raised my head to watch Mighty Mouse slap a bad guy across the kisser Grumpy Bill would push down on the back of my head until my chin almost touched my scruffy knees.
The old white-haired guy at the pool room was no gentler and I liked his partner in snips, Mose Farrell, a lot better.
While Moses cut my hair or trimmed my neck he didn’t seem to mind if I snuck a peek at the action on a bustling Main St. or clattering pool table or at the glossy magazine covers on a nearby rack.
When the barbers vacated the pool hall I walked one block farther west to the last barber I can recall, a much younger fellow who slapped a brush cut on me faster than you could say ‘see ya in three weeks’.
When I told him about my new electric guitar he sold me a used amp for a few dollars and I was in business.
[“Learned any new chords yet, Gordie?”: See photo in context]
So, with my hair down to the nubs I tried my hand at one or two songs and five or six chords - over and over and over again until not only my mother but Eric Burdon, a few Animals and a dozen people from New Orleans hollered down the basement steps to knock it off.
(Now I’m up to 10 chords and write my own tunes but nobody comes to visit.)
A few final words about the pool hall.
I never bought their glossy mags but eventually got brave enough to do more than peek at the covers.
I bought my first LPs there when they caught my eye and still have my Steppenwolf album.
Occasionally, after high school classes were done for the day and before I slipped out the back door to run to work at Maedel’s Red & White I’d sneek in a quick game of pool with Ken Fidlin (who now writes sports for Sun Media).
While writing this installment I recalled I borrowed a quarter for pop from George Bishop, one of our high school quarterbacks, and I don’t think I ever paid him back.
I can afford to pay him back because I cut my own hair now (can you tell?) thereby saving about $30 per month.
Sorry, George. Next time I see ya, eh?
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