Buford's Barber Shop

Today I got my hair cut. For most of my life this has been a task I dreaded. First as a young child forced to sit still while my hair was sheared from my head in a time when long hair was the fashion. Later as an adult who never seemed to find satisfaction with the results of randomly selecting a time and place for the inevitable task.

In between were the years that I frequented Buford's Barber Shop in Moultrie. Stepping into his old shop on East Central was like stepping into a time capsule. The place never seemed to change from my vague early childhood memories of visits there with my father. The place became comforting enough that even when I left Moultrie for several years afterward I would always try to work in a visit to Buford when we made a trip to see family.

It has been many years since his shop was torn down to make way for progress, but I still miss the place. Two ornate red barber chairs sat in front of the mirror and sinks along the back wall as you entered the shop, although he had been the only barber there for years. In between the sinks was a brilliant antique cash register that didn't really work, but just held the denominations of bills separate from each other.

The light fixtures were harsh and simple, suspended from the high ceiling. The tile floor was plain and drab, creating a stark contrast to the colorful barber chairs. Rows of matching attached red chairs lined two of the walls for you to sit and wait your turn.

It was your responsibility to take notice of who was there as you entered. Not once did I ever walk in without having to wait. One by one each person took his turn until those faces were gone and you now had the pleasure of sitting in the big red chair.

Buford always wore the same white barber shirt. He talked with all the customers, mostly about the weather it seemed. I always found it hard to have a conversation though when I sat in the chair as the clippers would whir so loudly in my ears.

Whenever I would first sit down, he would ask me, "Do you want a good haircut?" I always replied yes. I don't ever recall telling him anything other than that about how to cut it. As I moved away to Atlanta and the trips became less and less frequent, he would ask, "Do you still want a good haircut?" "That's why I came to see you," I would reply.

Buford would always ask about my father and grandfather. I was a third generation customer. After my grandfather passed away, Buford would speak with admiration of his work ethic.

My haircut usually took about twenty minutes in the chair. I loved the final touches with the straight razor and hot shaving cream to trim the edges on my neck. The best part was the cleanness you felt when you were done and how you could rub your fingers across the short hairs on the back of your head and feel the grain and texture.

After Buford was forced to move his business, I still visited a few times, but it was never quite the same. The charm of the shop was gone, even though he moved his chair and cash register with him. He finally retired and with him a piece of small town America. He endured for decades preserving the history of the old fashioned barber shop and I am glad that I had the privilege of experiencing it.