Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow

.:: By John B Grimes

“I came for the haircut, but stayed for the conversation.”

A few days ago, I got a haircut.

Now, I know that doesn’t sound like blog-worthy material, but hear me out—this wasn’t just any haircut. It was my last haircut with Lynne, my barber of 23 years, because Lynne is retiring. That’s right. After nearly a quarter-century of sitting in her chair once a month, chatting about everything and nothing while she tamed the wild that lives on my head, our streak has come to an end.

Twenty-three years. That’s around 275 haircuts. If you do the math, that’s 8,250 minutes—or about 138 hours—of uninterrupted conversation. Not to mention the emotional currency exchanged in that swivel chair over the years.

When I met Lynne, she was married, I wasn’t. She had kids, I didn’t. She had just become a grandmother. Fast-forward to now: she’s divorced, I’m married, and I’ve got kids of my own. Somewhere between our first cut and our last, we both aged a generation, swapped stories about four different U.S. presidents (one of whom made a repeat appearance), endured a pandemic, and watched the shop move twice. I moved three times myself, but my barber never changed. That consistency, that ritual of sitting in Lynne’s chair once a month—it was one of the few reliable rhythms in a world that never stops spinning.

It’s hard to describe what those appointments meant. A haircut, sure. But it was also therapy, stand-up comedy, a podcast episode, and a tiny cultural summit all rolled into one. Lynne didn’t follow sports (which in barber world is nearly sacrilegious), so she forced me to broaden my conversational playbook. Instead of box scores and trade rumors, we talked about travel, family, podcasts, books, hair trends, and music—a lot about music. We shared stories about being Ohioans transplanted in Texas—Midwest heart, Southern zip code.

She knew me only post-meningitis, so a lot of our conversations danced around vision loss and the aftermath. She asked thoughtful questions, listened deeply, and offered encouragement when I began writing more seriously. In fact, she was one of the first people to nudge me toward turning some of those stories into something bigger. Some days I left with a fresh cut and a story idea.

And Lynne didn’t just help me look presentable. Years ago, she injured her wrist and hand—a scary proposition for anyone, but especially for someone whose livelihood depends on the precision of their hands. It was serious enough that she saw a hand specialist, one of her own clients, and someone she’d eventually recommend to me when I later broke a finger in an accident. I remember how much pain she was in during that time. But she powered through. She never let it stop her. She kept cutting hair, kept showing up, kept doing what she did best—even when it hurt.

That’s just who she is. A connector, a helper, someone who pays attention and remembers the important things.

Her mother passed away a few years back, and I remember that being a really difficult time. I lost my grandparents along the way, too. We talked about grief, loss, aging, and how strange it is to keep living after people you love are gone. And yet, even through all that, Lynne showed up for her clients, ready to make people feel good. Not just about how they looked, but about who they were.

She told me once she’s been encouraged to write a book about the stories she’s heard behind the chair. I believe it. There’s a bestseller in her memory bank, no doubt. I wonder if any of my stories would make the cut. Hopefully not the more embarrassing ones.

Lynne has also been a customer of mine for over 15 years, so while our monthly appointments are ending, our connection isn’t. She may be hanging up her clippers, but we’ll still be in touch—maybe until I retire, which is both comforting and mildly terrifying to think about.

Will I ever find another barber I’ll see once a month for 23 years? Honestly, I doubt it. When you start with someone, you never think, “This person will be part of my life for a quarter-century.” And yet here we are.

So here’s to Lynne: my barber, my client, and my friend. Thank you for keeping me looking sharp through some of the sharpest (and dullest) times of my life. You were steady hands in a chaotic world, and I’m grateful for every minute. You deserve all the joy retirement can offer. But I’ll miss you on the first Friday of each month.