611/700 - Tony
My son and I were taking a walk in Toronto’s east end, not far from home, and he suddenly stopped and asked me if I’d mind taking a few minutes for him to get a haircut. We had just passed a barber shop and noted it had no customers. I said it would be fine. This man sprang up as we entered and prepared to ply his trade on my son. Meet Tony.
I sat nearby as Tony wrapped a tissue around my son’s neck and draped him with the cape and a few instructions were exchanged and soon the clippers were buzzing and the scissors were clicking. I sat and tried to initiate some “small talk” with Tony by asking about the shop and how long he’s been in business. I was getting the feeling he was either hard of hearing or someone who just “kept his own counsel” as my mother used to say about people who hold their cards close to their chest. Nonetheless, I volunteered a bit about us and pretty soon Tony became more comfortable in chatting.
In response to my question about how long he’s been cutting hair he asked me to guess. He had that smug smile people have when they ask you to guess and expect you to be wrong. I obliged by guessing 20 years. Tony was pleased and paused with his scissors and gestured upward. I kept nudging the guess upward until he finally ended the suspense by telling me 64 years. Now convinced that my interest was real, his story began to flow and Tony’s story was the classic old-world immigrant story.
He learned his trade at his father’s knee in a village not far from Naples in Italy. At the age of 10 he would go straight to his father’s barber shop and sweep the floor. Soon he “graduated” to foaming up the shaving lather with a brush. Next came learning how to shave a customer with a straight razor. Finally came the art of cutting hair for customers.
When Tony immigrated to Canada 55 years ago he started out taking ESL classes (English as a second language) to learn enough English to enroll in a barbering course at the local community college where he earned the required qualification to be licensed by the city to do a job he had been doing since childhood. “No license, no shop and no work for anybody’s shop” he said. While he is clearly proud of his Italian heritage, Tony is just as proud of being Canadian. During our conversation he mentioned more than once "But I am a Canadian now." It always interests me how people in this city of immigrants form an identity that combines their heritage and a sense of being Canadian. The balance varies depending on the individual (and the community) but it is always there.
“I have this shop 50 years, same address: 910 Broadview Ave. Same address” he proudly repeated in case that fact had not been fully appreciated. Before that he used to cut hair in downtown Toronto. He asked me “How old you think I am?” Again, the same flicker of a smile as he waited for my wrong guess. “Well” I said “if you’ve been in business for 50 years in this location, obviously you’re older than I thought.” The proud smile turned to a smug one. “How old? Guess.” Following the obligatory wrong guesses I was told the correct answer that had eluded me: 74.
“74 and still cutting hair. You must enjoy your work” I ventured. Tony seemed a bit puzzled. “What am I going to do?” was his reply as the trimmer buzzed and the scissors clicked. “What do you like best about your job?” I asked. Tony seemed puzzled by my question and fished for a reply. He said “Personality.” By that, I guessed he liked meeting the people since this is definitely a people business. “What is your secret, Tony, to having a long life and a long career?” He didn’t pause before answering. The scissors paused and he glanced my way. “Two important things. First is good woman. Next is good wine. Red wine. Not from store. Make yourself.”
We laughed and I nodded at his formula. We joked a bit and Tony was now quite in his element. Gone was the silent man with an apparent hearing problem. He heard just fine. I said I have the good woman but I guess I have to work on the good home-made wine. He laughed. We concluded that making good wine was more easily accomplished than finding the right woman.
By now Tony was finishing up the haircut which he did with lather and a straight razor to do the neck and around the ears. He pulled a page out of a magazine and used it to wipe the blade between strokes and said “You not see this anywhere any more. The blade.” I agreed and said it’s a very rare talent now.
Haircut complete, mirror held, and approval given, my son paid up and I told Tony about my photography project and invited him to participate. He was surprised when I said I would do his portrait then and there because my camera was hidden in the small shoulder bag. “Sure” he said. “You do it.” I wanted a bit of context in the photo so, with Tony’s permission, I pushed an overstuffed easy chair aside to I could pose him next to a display case of memorabilia and “tools of the trade,” with him facing the front of the shop to make use of natural light from the display window. The display case contained old family photos, a souvenir plate, Christmas cards, a small religious shrine, and various bottles of powders and liquids. In a neighborhood with lots of upscale haircutting salons and spas, Tony's in a no-nonsense down-to-earth, rather spare, old-fashioned barber shop. No bells and whistles here. Just a comfortable, well-worn, traditional barber shop with no pretentions.
I took another photo of Tony at the front door and he was clearly proud of his small shop and there was a feeling that we were old friends although we had just met 15 minutes ago. Tony wanted me to be sure to photograph the barber pole in front of his shop, indicating that there aren’t a lot of those around anymore. “Original” he stated proudly. I showed him his image on the camera display and he winced. “Old man” he said. I told him I would not forget his secrets for a long life and pointed out that he’s not that much older than I am.
We thanked him for the haircut and I promised to drop off his photo next week. He said he’s there all day every day except Sunday. A hard-working man. As my son and I walked up the street we reflected on Tony’s story and we agreed that my comment that he must like his job or he wouldn’t have stayed in it so long probably missed the point. Tony came from a world where people didn’t have the luxury of reflecting on a variety of career choices and pursuing a dream. He learned his job from his father and it is simply what he does - for life. Although Tony does enjoy his work, like in much of the world, it probably wasn’t a matter of conscious choice.
Thank you Tony for participating in 100 Strangers and for sharing the story of your long career – in Italy and in Canada. You are Stranger #611 in Round 7 of my project.
Find out more about the project and see pictures taken by the other photographers in our group at the 100 Strangers Flickr Group page.
611/700 - Tony
My son and I were taking a walk in Toronto’s east end, not far from home, and he suddenly stopped and asked me if I’d mind taking a few minutes for him to get a haircut. We had just passed a barber shop and noted it had no customers. I said it would be fine. This man sprang up as we entered and prepared to ply his trade on my son. Meet Tony.
I sat nearby as Tony wrapped a tissue around my son’s neck and draped him with the cape and a few instructions were exchanged and soon the clippers were buzzing and the scissors were clicking. I sat and tried to initiate some “small talk” with Tony by asking about the shop and how long he’s been in business. I was getting the feeling he was either hard of hearing or someone who just “kept his own counsel” as my mother used to say about people who hold their cards close to their chest. Nonetheless, I volunteered a bit about us and pretty soon Tony became more comfortable in chatting.
In response to my question about how long he’s been cutting hair he asked me to guess. He had that smug smile people have when they ask you to guess and expect you to be wrong. I obliged by guessing 20 years. Tony was pleased and paused with his scissors and gestured upward. I kept nudging the guess upward until he finally ended the suspense by telling me 64 years. Now convinced that my interest was real, his story began to flow and Tony’s story was the classic old-world immigrant story.
He learned his trade at his father’s knee in a village not far from Naples in Italy. At the age of 10 he would go straight to his father’s barber shop and sweep the floor. Soon he “graduated” to foaming up the shaving lather with a brush. Next came learning how to shave a customer with a straight razor. Finally came the art of cutting hair for customers.
When Tony immigrated to Canada 55 years ago he started out taking ESL classes (English as a second language) to learn enough English to enroll in a barbering course at the local community college where he earned the required qualification to be licensed by the city to do a job he had been doing since childhood. “No license, no shop and no work for anybody’s shop” he said. While he is clearly proud of his Italian heritage, Tony is just as proud of being Canadian. During our conversation he mentioned more than once "But I am a Canadian now." It always interests me how people in this city of immigrants form an identity that combines their heritage and a sense of being Canadian. The balance varies depending on the individual (and the community) but it is always there.
“I have this shop 50 years, same address: 910 Broadview Ave. Same address” he proudly repeated in case that fact had not been fully appreciated. Before that he used to cut hair in downtown Toronto. He asked me “How old you think I am?” Again, the same flicker of a smile as he waited for my wrong guess. “Well” I said “if you’ve been in business for 50 years in this location, obviously you’re older than I thought.” The proud smile turned to a smug one. “How old? Guess.” Following the obligatory wrong guesses I was told the correct answer that had eluded me: 74.
“74 and still cutting hair. You must enjoy your work” I ventured. Tony seemed a bit puzzled. “What am I going to do?” was his reply as the trimmer buzzed and the scissors clicked. “What do you like best about your job?” I asked. Tony seemed puzzled by my question and fished for a reply. He said “Personality.” By that, I guessed he liked meeting the people since this is definitely a people business. “What is your secret, Tony, to having a long life and a long career?” He didn’t pause before answering. The scissors paused and he glanced my way. “Two important things. First is good woman. Next is good wine. Red wine. Not from store. Make yourself.”
We laughed and I nodded at his formula. We joked a bit and Tony was now quite in his element. Gone was the silent man with an apparent hearing problem. He heard just fine. I said I have the good woman but I guess I have to work on the good home-made wine. He laughed. We concluded that making good wine was more easily accomplished than finding the right woman.
By now Tony was finishing up the haircut which he did with lather and a straight razor to do the neck and around the ears. He pulled a page out of a magazine and used it to wipe the blade between strokes and said “You not see this anywhere any more. The blade.” I agreed and said it’s a very rare talent now.
Haircut complete, mirror held, and approval given, my son paid up and I told Tony about my photography project and invited him to participate. He was surprised when I said I would do his portrait then and there because my camera was hidden in the small shoulder bag. “Sure” he said. “You do it.” I wanted a bit of context in the photo so, with Tony’s permission, I pushed an overstuffed easy chair aside to I could pose him next to a display case of memorabilia and “tools of the trade,” with him facing the front of the shop to make use of natural light from the display window. The display case contained old family photos, a souvenir plate, Christmas cards, a small religious shrine, and various bottles of powders and liquids. In a neighborhood with lots of upscale haircutting salons and spas, Tony's in a no-nonsense down-to-earth, rather spare, old-fashioned barber shop. No bells and whistles here. Just a comfortable, well-worn, traditional barber shop with no pretentions.
I took another photo of Tony at the front door and he was clearly proud of his small shop and there was a feeling that we were old friends although we had just met 15 minutes ago. Tony wanted me to be sure to photograph the barber pole in front of his shop, indicating that there aren’t a lot of those around anymore. “Original” he stated proudly. I showed him his image on the camera display and he winced. “Old man” he said. I told him I would not forget his secrets for a long life and pointed out that he’s not that much older than I am.
We thanked him for the haircut and I promised to drop off his photo next week. He said he’s there all day every day except Sunday. A hard-working man. As my son and I walked up the street we reflected on Tony’s story and we agreed that my comment that he must like his job or he wouldn’t have stayed in it so long probably missed the point. Tony came from a world where people didn’t have the luxury of reflecting on a variety of career choices and pursuing a dream. He learned his job from his father and it is simply what he does - for life. Although Tony does enjoy his work, like in much of the world, it probably wasn’t a matter of conscious choice.
Thank you Tony for participating in 100 Strangers and for sharing the story of your long career – in Italy and in Canada. You are Stranger #611 in Round 7 of my project.
Find out more about the project and see pictures taken by the other photographers in our group at the 100 Strangers Flickr Group page.