Park Slope Barber

RIP Angelo and condolences to your family. I received many, many haircuts in your chair over the years. You are missed.

The Park Slope Barber Shop is a tradition for us. Angelo gave my son, Ezra, his first haircut, somehow surviving the toddler screams that caused passersby to stop and stare through the window. Ever since then--about 6 years now--Ezra and I have visited the shop every few weeks. Most of the time, John cut Ezra's hair, offering a series of successively lower booster seats as Ezra grew, and Angelo would cut mine. Even when he didn't need a haircut, Ezra would ask to go to the barber knowing that a lollypop was waiting. We were there on the first Saturday the shop was open after Angelo died. There was a steady stream of people coming to offer their condolences, a hand drawn card, a word of support or sorrow. We miss Angelo and Vito, and we love John, the tradition, and the strong sense of community which comes from a store that has been there longer than any of its occupants. A couple of months ago, I stopped in with our newest son to introduce him to John. He doesn't need a haircut yet, but someday soon he too will get to join the tradition. This time the honor (or ear drum damage) of the first haircut will go to John.

Slightly off-topic, but this barber shop story brought back memories. Many years ago when I was a little girl, I used to tag along with my father and brother as they went for haircuts at the Village Barber, somewhere in the West Village. Their traditional barber was "Sandy." While they were getting their cuts, my mom and I would stroll around the stores - there was a Brentano's, a grocery store called "Smilin' Brothers," a furniture store, and a cool store that sold African jewelry. What I've always been trying to remember is where exactly all that was. Since there are a lot of longtime New Yorkers reading this column, I wonder if anyone knows?

Thank you for your Diary entry, Patrick. I hope that John Fiumefreddo is reading this. I extend my condolences to him. I wasn’t going to comment today, but the comments from Allen and Freddie, along with your Diary entry itself, started my thought process. The ending of your story, Patrick, reminds me of Robert Frost’s poem titled “Out, Out–” in which a young boy dies after losing his hand in an accident with a buzz saw. John Fiumefreddo had to get back to his chair just as the people in Frost’s poem had to get back to work. Life must go on. Frost ends his poem with these words: “And they, since they were not the one dead, turned to their affairs.” My English teacher in high school introduced us to Robert Frost. I never forgot that poem, and you brought it back to me, Patrick. Thank you.

All of us - my husband, three sons and myself, got our hair cut there. How proud I was when my youngest finally went into the chair voluntarily to have his hair cut. A memorable place. RIP, sir.

Your bittersweet Diary entry Patrick brought alive my own memories of my father taking me to Epi’s Barber Shop in Inwood, a narrow little shop that angled back at a slant and was located on the west side of Broadway just north of Isham Street. I remember so clearly my father holding my hand when we went for my first haircut, that bench that Epi placed across the arms of the barber chair to raise me up to hair-cutting height, and the smell of the tonic Epi used on my neck. Freddie is absolutely right of course—given the capriciousness of life, we can never take anything, or anyone, for granted. Which is a wonderful reason to be kind to and appreciate each other as much as is humanly possible, and to thank those who grace and enrich our lives. Thank you for a beautiful story of life and loss Patrick, one that will stay alive in my memory for a long time.

As is appropriate for a series like the Diary which brings a cross-section of metropolitan life stories, sometimes life stories must deal with the effect of the New York lives that leave us. What a poignant look at missing someone who is not a daily part of our lives, but whose presence we strangely (yet understandably) appreciate even more when it's a memory than right there with us. Take no one for granted, a lesson I know, but don't know enough to follow - this story will help that. And now all of us who read the Diary will remember "the other guy" Angelo.