Surviving Kretzen Broers

Every two weeks, the dreaded domestic decree was handed down in our house, and there was simply no escaping it. In the late 1950s and early 1960s, a few stray centimeters of hair over a young man's ears in Worcester was a quiet badge of pride, a small rebellion against the clipped conformity of the era. To surrender those precious centimeters felt like an outright defeat, yet after the inevitable weekend fuss, I would reluctantly mount my bicycle. I pedaled toward downtown like a man marching toward his own execution, the afternoon sun heavy on my back.

My brother and I were always dispatched to Kretzen Broers, a barber shop tucked down a narrow alleyway just off High Street. At the entrance of the passage, a large sign with bold red lettering greeted you like a stern warning. With heavy feet and a sinking heart, I would drag myself down the lane and turn into the establishment on the right. Inside, a long, narrow room stretched out, dominated by three formidable barber chairs and the steady, rhythmic hum of swirly rotating fans mounted on the high ceiling.

The shop was almost always packed with local men, a thick haze of tobacco smoke and casual chatter filling the air. A Formica table with gleaming chrome legs broke the row of vinyl waiting chairs into two distinct halves. Right in the center of that table sat a large, sprawling green fern, surrounded by a scattered mess of magazines like Life, The Saturday Evening Post, Field and Stream, and Popular Mechanics. There were inevitably copies of Farmers Weekly and Landbouweekblad resting there too, though those held absolutely no interest for a boy like me.

Every wall was lined with mirrors, forcing you to confront your own doom from every angle. Colourful, advertisements were dotted around the glass, praising the virtues of Brylcreem and its famous promise that a little dab would do ya. Others plugged Vitalis, Silvikrin, and a mysterious product called La Pebra. None of us knew anyone who actually used La Pebra, which was rumored to set a coiffure rock-hard. We strongly suspected it was reserved exclusively for the local Elvis wannabes whose towering pompadours required serious structural engineering.

Waiting for your turn was a tedious, agonizing business, but it offered a front-row seat to the local theater. I would sit quietly and watch the brothers, Ferdi and Hannes Kretzen, go through their familiar, well-rehearsed paces. One of them walked with an artificial leg, navigating the space around the chairs with a practiced, mechanical grace. First came the aggressive buzz of the electric clipper, carving a brutal path up a patron’s neck. Then the long, silver scissors were produced, snipping away with a hypnotic rhythm while curls cascaded off the cloth apron and settled onto the linoleum floor.

Thick leather strops were attached to the side of each counter, catching my eye whenever a customer requested a shave. The barber would grab a heavy cut-throat razor, slapping the steel blade vigorously against the leather to hone the edge. Every now and again, an older customer would ask to have his hair singed. The barber would light a long, thin white wax taper and pass the flame over the freshly cut ends, causing the hair to shrivel and crackle. It was an ancient practice based on the old myth that hair contained life fluids that needed to be sealed inside, and the brief, smoky pyrotechnics never failed to fascinate me.

Eventually, the performance would reach its grand finale. The barber would liberally dust the back of the customer’s neck with talcum powder using a giant brush, whip the hair-strewn cloth apron away with a dramatic snap, and bark into the crowded room: “Next! Volgende!”

My heart would suddenly thud against my ribs because I knew my time had run out. I climbed into the heavy chair, vividly remembering the days when I was much smaller and a thick wooden plank had to be placed across the leather arms just so I could reach the barber's level. Now fully seated and trapped beneath the white sheet, the barber would look at my reflection in the mirror, smile slightly, and ask: “Short back and sides or would you like a shave, Mr. Kramer?”