It all started with Paul “Hutch” Hutchens, who was my Grandfather’s buddy. He was a barber in my hometown, where men cared about looking good. Grandpa Billy always wore his hair combed back with a hard part on the left and after Hutch finished his hair my brothers and I would take our turns in his chair. My aunts were beauticians, but we always loved going to Hutch’s place as kids because we got to hit the Hero House sandwich shop right next door. Now, I grew up well south of what one would consider “middle class,” so high-dollar hair cuts were not the order of the day. My mom cared for us looking good — Hutch always gave her the hookup — and we got to watch all the old guys at the barber shop playing checkers or shooting the breeze. I remember the sounds, the smells and watching men get straight razor shaves. All of it seems very real and recent, but it was a long time ago. Sometimes the way forward is a glimpse back at what has shaped us, those small watershed moments when you realize that a fresh cut and a communal experience could make you feel like a million bucks … or “$7.00 cash money! No checks!” as Hutch would say.