Shave and a haircut, the old-fashioned way
2004 November 13th |
National Post, [11/13/2004]
APARITA BHANDARI
Special to the National Post
It’s 9:30 on a Saturday morning and already the linoleum floor of De Francesca Men’s Hair Stylists is carpeted with hanks of hair. Empty streetcars trundle by, and most of the other shops in the Dundas and Roncesvalles neighbourhood remain shuttered.
But the De Francesca brothers, Palmo and Joe, have been tending to a steady stream of regulars since 8 a.m.
One man, who gives his name only as Arnold, readies himself to go under the razor of elder brother, Palmo. Palmo eases back the red-leather-and-chrome barber chair and tucks a white towel, bibstyle, into Arnold’s shirt collar. Arnold’s face disappears into a hot towel, which Palmo then tosses on to an adjacent chair. From a dispenser he whooshes a dab of shaving cream in his hand and applies it liberally to Arnold’s face, working up a lather with a soft brush.
Then comes the straight razor. Palmo’s face, all smiles and eye-crinkles until now, turns serious. His square jaw sets, lips press into a thin line and raised eyebrows furrow his forehead. He pinches Arnold’s skin with his left hand, stretching it, and smoothes the razor over it with his right. The strokes are deft and precise, first with the grain, then, after a second lathering of shaving cream, against it. He follows this with another hot towel, then a cold one. Then comes a facial and shoulder massage.
“Ahhh,” Arnold sighs. “This is the best way to spend a Saturday morning. A shave and a haircut. Not many barbers do this any more. It’s an art.”
A quick whirr of the cash register, a few clinks of coin and Arnold is out the door. Meanwhile, at another chair, Joe has just finished with his customer.
“It’s an old man’s haircut,” he says with a laugh.
“Well, that’s what I like,” says the customer, who looks to be in his late 30s.
Another whirr of the register and clink of coins.
“Oh, I just tease him,” Joe says. “It’s cut very short. Old men, they don’t make fuss.”
If it’s a $14 haircut and $10 shave you desire, De Francesca is the place to go. Waiting is done on hard-backed chairs. There are no peach- or coconut-scented shampoos or conditioners, but if you stand close to Joe, you can catch a whiff of Proraso Crema all’Olio di Eucalipto, a line of shaving products from Italy. On this morning, Ella Fitzgerald is crooning Fever on 740 AM.
“If you don’t know how to shave, you can’t call yourself a barber,” Palmo says. “La barb, it means shave. We don’t do hair colouring. No pedicure, no spa. It’s a man’s shop.”
(Though it’s not for all men. Palmo says he won’t serve “men with lipstick or plucked eyebrows” in his shop. “I’m an old man, very traditional
Italian.”)
The door opens.
“Antonio.”
“Palmo,” the customer replies. “Can you take some off the top? It was cut too long.”
“I don’t do repair jobs,” Palmo shoots back, a smile on his face.
There’s a minor incident when Antonio jumps the line.
“I didn’t know you kept an appointment book,” grumbles the client in line before Antonio. “I thought it was first-come, first-served.”
Joe placates the man, finishing his haircut in a jiffy. He dusts the spray of hair from his shirt and turns to the next person in line.
“Francesco.”
“Joe.”
The 30-something Francesco’s head is an unruly mop. “I think, a little short on the sides,” Joe advises. Soon, in an unlikely duet, the steady hum from Joe’s electrical clippers can be heard along with the squeak of Palmo’s scissors. Joe works like a painter, standing on his toes, bending slightly, then leaning back, as if surveying a canvas.
Francesco asks for a shave, and the hot-cold towel routine starts again. Joe is careful with Francesco’s elaborate goatee.
“They say only a barber can touch the nose of a king,” Joe says, holding Francesco’s nose to pull back his face.
The two brothers learned their trade in Cosenza, in southern Italy. “Cosenza is a city of artigiane,” Palmo says. “All kinds. Shoemakers, goldsmiths, blacksmiths, furniture makers. And barbers.”
Palmo and Joe started apprenticeships when they were 14 years old. In 1959, when he was 19, Palmo came to Toronto, followed by Joe, in 1961. Both men worked for several years as gentlemen’s hairdressers before purchasing the Dundas-Roncesvalles barbershop.
Today, the only thing missing is the traditional barber pole. The brothers used to have an electrical cylinder on the wall outside the shop, but it was stolen. Now a red-and-white-striped pole is painted on the shop window.
“Before, a barber, he used to pull people’s teeth,” Palmo says. “He was doing surgery. So the red is blood, white, towels, and blue, disinfectant. It’s the same sign in my home country.”
Over the years, people have come and go in the neighbourhood, but the clientele, by and large, has remained the same. The Conville family, for one, discovered the barbershop a decade ago, when they lived in the district. Two years ago, they moved to Brampton, but they still come back every six weeks or so, depending on which one of the Conville men — father Cameron or sons James, 11, and William, 4 — needs a haircut.
“We also like to keep up with the neighbourhood gossip — what’s new, what’s torn down, what politician is doing what, what are the neighbours up to,” Conville says, while James gets his thick brown hair cut like an old-fashioned schoolboy. Palmo uses a razor to finish up at the back.
“Oh, you’re a big boy now. You get the razor,” Conville says. As James scrambles down, Conville gets ready for his own turn in the chair. “Basically, it’s two nice guys who know their stuff,” he says. Illustration: * Black & White Photo: Peter J. Thompson, National Post / Palmo De Francesca, right, chats with his brother, Joe, and Lissette Balawejder while cutting her two-year-old son John’s hair.
