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More on Varejao
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Opponent outlook: Kent State
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Quick thought on Browns rookies
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Wedge challenges relievers
Cleveland Browns:
Stallworth test showed marijuana
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Men's Basketball Scheduling update
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Andy’s Signed According to ESPN
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Does Medicare Have Lower Administrative Costs ?
Blog of Mass Destruction:
CIA Did Mislead Congress
Akron Law Café:
Breaking Story: CIA Lied to Congress about Secret Program
Varsity Letters:
East basketball update
See Jane Style:
Oh Baby!
Car Chase:
Where do We Go from Here?
Let's Talk Real Estate:
Closings….Not the Good Kind!
Ohio Travels with Betty:
Margy inquires-when is a Taste of Hudson?
Sound Check:
LeVert II live performance Saturday night — "Dedication" album due July 13,
HRLite House:
DDI One of Best Places to Work
Akron Gamer:
First 24 'Guitar Hero 5' songs announced
By Paula Schleis/Beacon Journal business writer
POSTED: 11:06 a.m. EDT, Apr 21, 2008
BARBERTON: Like a fly caught in amber, the East Side Barber Shop seems frozen in time.
Homes grew up around the tiny brick structure half a century ago. Most of the hard-working families who built them are long gone.
A grocery store and a pharmacy once kept the little barber shop company at the corner of East Hopocan Avenue and Seventh Street. They left decades ago.
But Ralph Garritano remains.
He guides his customers — men, boys, a handful of daring women — to a chair that was state-of-the-art when it was built in 1958. It's a little worn now, a bit of duct tape at the base keeps it from spinning, but it's a perfectly good chair.
Like the perfectly good barber who stands behind it.
The march of time has left its mark on Garritano. A few extra pounds. Dark hair turned white. Well-earned lines on a seasoned face.
But the years fall away as the 76-year-old barber grabs a strap of horse hide that hangs from the arm of the chair and pulls it taut. He rhythmically drags a straight-edged razor back and forth over the leather.
The edge of the sharpened blade disappears into white foam that rings Larry Robinson's ears and neck. A moment later, Garritano wipes the cream away.
The finishing touch to a perfectly good haircut.
''He's one of the few who still shaves around the ears,'' Robinson says as the 64-year-old turns to the mirror and nods his approval. Garritano rings up $9 on his low-tech register.
Robinson's days at impersonal salon chains ended when he moved into the neighborhood five years ago and spotted the little barber shop at the end of his street.
Living history, straight out of Mayberry R.F.D.
Garritano first plugged in his shears here in 1960. The building went up a couple of years earlier, but the original barber quickly decided it was too far off the beaten path.
Garritano thought it was a perfectly good location.
And he should know.
His dad was a barber. His uncles were barbers. His grandpa was a barber. Three of his four brothers were barbers. Two of his three sisters were beauticians.
Over the previous two decades, the entire family moved from Frostburg, Md., to Barberton. One or two family members at a time, until all had resettled.
''I don't think my dad wanted us to be barbers,'' Garritano says thoughtfully. ''He never encouraged me.''
That might have something to do with young Ralph's first foray into hair cutting, when he snipped the locks from his seventh grade classmate.
''My dad gave me hell for doing it,'' he says. ''I didn't pass my friend's house all summer long cause his dad was after me.''
And then in the early 1950s, while serving in the Navy, Garritano received a package in the mail. Clippers. From his dad.
''He said, 'Make yourself a couple of quarters,' '' Garritano recalls.
When Garritano returned home, he got a job at the Ford plant in Cuyahoga County.
''But that's work. That's work,'' he said, shaking his head. He lasted eight months, just long enough to finish barber school.
For the next couple of years, he worked for other people. Then he set out on his own. Twenty-five customers followed him to that little shop in Barberton.
The blossoming neighborhood was filled with children. They played ball in a vacant lot behind his building and rode bikes down the sidewalk and bought penny candy at Bozin's grocery store and Ritzman's Pharmacy across the street.
Garritano and his wife Elizabeth raised seven children. From time to time, Garritano would pick up extra jobs so he could pay tuition to send all of his kids through St. Vincent School in Akron.
And yes, one of them became a barber — Steve, of Steve's Barber Shop in Kenmore.
Back in the day, Garritano also belonged to a barber's union. Some 60 members from the Barberton-Norton area alone rotated meetings between their shops.
The growth of chain stores put many of them out of business, the fate of so many mom-and-pop operations.
Meanwhile, the neighborhood kids grew up and moved out. Ritzman's relocated to a more visible area. Bozin's closed.
''It makes me feel bad,'' Garritano said, looking at the empty building through his window.
Outside, the neighborhood is perfectly quiet. Many of the homes are now filled with widowers and retirees and empty nesters.
People who appreciate a perfectly good barber.
They keep him busy. They visit him and yak about the weather and their families and the latest headlines.
They pay for a haircut and get free therapy.
People who sit in his chair open like books to him. They cry for ill wives and fret over lost jobs and celebrate the birth of grandchildren.
''They spill it all out to me,'' he says.
Garritano cherishes the closeness, but he pays dearly for it.
As the years advance, more of his customers show up in the obituary pages. It hurts.
''Do you have to go down to that funeral home again?'' his wife asks that morning after he spots another long-time client in the death notices.
By 2 p.m., Garritano has served eight customers. An average Friday.
The business isn't so much an income anymore as it is a way of life.
The man who looked out his window a moment ago and felt sad is now overcome with a sense of belonging, of appreciation, of fulfillment.
''I love it here,'' he says.
Customers who have moved away still find their way back to him, and new faces appear at his door every week.
''Everybody who walks through that door likes me,'' he says. If they didn't, they wouldn't go out of their way.
It's been a half hour since his last customer left, and the lull is broken by a couple of bouncing youngsters.
Ben Long accompanies 5-year-old Xane and 9-year-old Max. They need rescued from mom Wendy's well-intentioned attempt at a buzz cut.
''It looks kinda misshapen, doesn't it? You see what I'm saying,'' Long says. No further explanation necessary.
Long, his own curls peeking out from beneath a ball cap, gets his hair cut but ''once in a blue moon, to get some of the shag out of it.''
The boys, on the other hand, are getting ready for baseball. This is Xane's first visit, Max's second.
They sit in the barber chair that their father had warmed as a boy.
Ben Long grew up a few streets away. Now he's raising his family in the neighborhood.
Before the Longs leave, Garritano gives the boys a dime to spend in his gum ball machine.
They pop the treats in their mouth and bound out the door, vying for their dad's attention all the way to the car.
It's a happy sound. Kids. In the neighborhood.
Maybe the cycle is about to start anew.
If so, Garritano plans to be around to see it. He has no intention of unplugging his shears.
''I don't know what it feels like to get up in the morning and not know what I'm going to do that day,'' he says.
And for someone who is so determined to resist retirement, that's a perfectly good reason.
Paula Schleis can be reached at 330-996-3741 or pschleis@thebeaconjournal.com.
BARBERTON: Like a fly caught in amber, the East Side Barber Shop seems frozen in time.
Homes grew up around the tiny brick structure half a century ago. Most of the hard-working families who built them are long gone.
A grocery store and a pharmacy once kept the little barber shop company at the corner of East Hopocan Avenue and Seventh Street. They left decades ago.
But Ralph Garritano remains.
He guides his customers — men, boys, a handful of daring women — to a chair that was state-of-the-art when it was built in 1958. It's a little worn now, a bit of duct tape at the base keeps it from spinning, but it's a perfectly good chair.
Like the perfectly good barber who stands behind it.
The march of time has left its mark on Garritano. A few extra pounds. Dark hair turned white. Well-earned lines on a seasoned face.
But the years fall away as the 76-year-old barber grabs a strap of horse hide that hangs from the arm of the chair and pulls it taut. He rhythmically drags a straight-edged razor back and forth over the leather.
The edge of the sharpened blade disappears into white foam that rings Larry Robinson's ears and neck. A moment later, Garritano wipes the cream away.
The finishing touch to a perfectly good haircut.
''He's one of the few who still shaves around the ears,'' Robinson says as the 64-year-old turns to the mirror and nods his approval. Garritano rings up $9 on his low-tech register.
Robinson's days at impersonal salon chains ended when he moved into the neighborhood five years ago and spotted the little barber shop at the end of his street.
Living history, straight out of Mayberry R.F.D.
Garritano first plugged in his shears here in 1960. The building went up a couple of years earlier, but the original barber quickly decided it was too far off the beaten path.
Garritano thought it was a perfectly good location.
And he should know.
His dad was a barber. His uncles were barbers. His grandpa was a barber. Three of his four brothers were barbers. Two of his three sisters were beauticians.
Over the previous two decades, the entire family moved from Frostburg, Md., to Barberton. One or two family members at a time, until all had resettled.
''I don't think my dad wanted us to be barbers,'' Garritano says thoughtfully. ''He never encouraged me.''
That might have something to do with young Ralph's first foray into hair cutting, when he snipped the locks from his seventh grade classmate.
''My dad gave me hell for doing it,'' he says. ''I didn't pass my friend's house all summer long cause his dad was after me.''
And then in the early 1950s, while serving in the Navy, Garritano received a package in the mail. Clippers. From his dad.
''He said, 'Make yourself a couple of quarters,' '' Garritano recalls.
When Garritano returned home, he got a job at the Ford plant in Cuyahoga County.
''But that's work. That's work,'' he said, shaking his head. He lasted eight months, just long enough to finish barber school.
For the next couple of years, he worked for other people. Then he set out on his own. Twenty-five customers followed him to that little shop in Barberton.
The blossoming neighborhood was filled with children. They played ball in a vacant lot behind his building and rode bikes down the sidewalk and bought penny candy at Bozin's grocery store and Ritzman's Pharmacy across the street.
Garritano and his wife Elizabeth raised seven children. From time to time, Garritano would pick up extra jobs so he could pay tuition to send all of his kids through St. Vincent School in Akron.
And yes, one of them became a barber — Steve, of Steve's Barber Shop in Kenmore.
Back in the day, Garritano also belonged to a barber's union. Some 60 members from the Barberton-Norton area alone rotated meetings between their shops.
The growth of chain stores put many of them out of business, the fate of so many mom-and-pop operations.
Meanwhile, the neighborhood kids grew up and moved out. Ritzman's relocated to a more visible area. Bozin's closed.
''It makes me feel bad,'' Garritano said, looking at the empty building through his window.
Outside, the neighborhood is perfectly quiet. Many of the homes are now filled with widowers and retirees and empty nesters.
People who appreciate a perfectly good barber.
They keep him busy. They visit him and yak about the weather and their families and the latest headlines.
They pay for a haircut and get free therapy.
People who sit in his chair open like books to him. They cry for ill wives and fret over lost jobs and celebrate the birth of grandchildren.
''They spill it all out to me,'' he says.
Garritano cherishes the closeness, but he pays dearly for it.
As the years advance, more of his customers show up in the obituary pages. It hurts.
''Do you have to go down to that funeral home again?'' his wife asks that morning after he spots another long-time client in the death notices.
By 2 p.m., Garritano has served eight customers. An average Friday.
The business isn't so much an income anymore as it is a way of life.
The man who looked out his window a moment ago and felt sad is now overcome with a sense of belonging, of appreciation, of fulfillment.
''I love it here,'' he says.
Customers who have moved away still find their way back to him, and new faces appear at his door every week.
''Everybody who walks through that door likes me,'' he says. If they didn't, they wouldn't go out of their way.
It's been a half hour since his last customer left, and the lull is broken by a couple of bouncing youngsters.
Ben Long accompanies 5-year-old Xane and 9-year-old Max. They need rescued from mom Wendy's well-intentioned attempt at a buzz cut.
''It looks kinda misshapen, doesn't it? You see what I'm saying,'' Long says. No further explanation necessary.
Long, his own curls peeking out from beneath a ball cap, gets his hair cut but ''once in a blue moon, to get some of the shag out of it.''
The boys, on the other hand, are getting ready for baseball. This is Xane's first visit, Max's second.
They sit in the barber chair that their father had warmed as a boy.
Ben Long grew up a few streets away. Now he's raising his family in the neighborhood.
Before the Longs leave, Garritano gives the boys a dime to spend in his gum ball machine.
They pop the treats in their mouth and bound out the door, vying for their dad's attention all the way to the car.
It's a happy sound. Kids. In the neighborhood.
Maybe the cycle is about to start anew.
If so, Garritano plans to be around to see it. He has no intention of unplugging his shears.
''I don't know what it feels like to get up in the morning and not know what I'm going to do that day,'' he says.
And for someone who is so determined to resist retirement, that's a perfectly good reason.
Paula Schleis can be reached at 330-996-3741 or pschleis@thebeaconjournal.com.
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