The Ritual of the Razor

There’s something about the barber’s chair that just resets me. I don’t get there as often as I’d like, but when I do, everything falls back into place—literally. The hairs get trimmed, I feel lighter, and those rogue old-man stragglers that now make surprise appearances on my neck, nose, and eyebrows get wiped from existence. It’s like hitting the reset button on my face.

For over 25 years, Steve at Bruno’s Barbershop on Milwaukee in Avondale has been my guy. Sundays are my time, when the shop is quieter, but I know I’m not alone. Greenland Sharks are always swimming through, even when I don’t see them. We’re drawn to places like this—where there’s rhythm, ritual, and just the right amount of conversation.

Men don’t always talk about it, but we need rituals. We don’t always call them that, but we have them—habits, routines, the small traditions that keep us grounded. Some guys have their morning coffee routine, the way they always take their first sip at the same place on the drive to work. Others have their gym time, their cigar lounge, their leaf blowing of their lawn. These things might seem minor, but they add structure to life. They’re anchors.

The barbershop is one of those sacred places. It’s been that way for centuries. A man steps into the chair, and for 30 minutes, he hands control over to someone else—an expert, a craftsman. There’s trust in that exchange. The barber sets things right, fixes what’s out of place. It’s not just about looking good; it’s about feeling put back together.

Sometimes, Steve and I barely speak. The hum of the clippers, the snip of the scissors—it all blends into this hypnotic white noise that almost puts me to sleep. Other times, we’re deep into music talk, comparing notes on bands we’re planning to see. Or we’re laughing (or maybe crying) about the state of the city, the country, the world. It’s like I’m sitting with a sage, a Buddha in a barber’s smock, reminding me that all is well—or at least that it will be after this cut.

The espresso helps too. That little shot of caffeine steadies me for whatever Sunday Scaries are creeping in. Barbershops in movies and TV often show groups of guys, all debating, arguing, and bonding over shared grievances and joys. That’s great, but for me, the one-on-one is what does it. It’s simple. It’s peaceful.

In 30 minutes, everything that’s out of line—my hair, my thoughts—gets straightened out. My flat top looks sharp, and I walk out feeling like I can take on anything. Why is that? Because men need structure. We need small victories, even if it’s just taming the stray hairs that keep popping up in strange places. We need familiar spaces, places where we don’t have to prove anything. In a world that constantly shifts, these rituals remind us of who we are.

For me, it’s a Sunday cut at Bruno’s. For another guy, it’s his Sunday golf game, his weekly poker night, his Friday morning bagel run. Whatever it is, it matters. Because when the ritual is done, we walk out into the world just a little sharper, a little steadier, and ready to face whatever comes next.