Bob Olson is a former skeptic and private eye who has investigated life after death for 27 years. He shares meaningful stories to expand minds, comfort grief, and uplift souls. He’s the host of Afterlife TV, author of Answers About The Afterlife and The Magic Mala, and founder of the directory of credible psychics, mediums, animal communicators, and intuitive practitioners, BestPsychicDirectory.com.
If you’ve ever read the book Tuesdays with Morrie, you know the power behind regular, periodic visits with someone special. In my life, I could write a fascinating book about my biweekly haircuts with my friend and barber, Ed.
Barbershops are a storyteller’s cure for writer’s block. I've often thought there ought to be a TV reality show based in a busy barbershop. The litany of characters who come and go from Ed’s place, with two floors and up to ten barbers, is a TV producer’s dream. Even during my brief moments there, I’ve returned home with interesting, humorous, and sometimes shocking stories to tell my wife, Melissa.
Ed, the shop owner, is half my age, but he has the maturity and insight of someone who has lived a full life and learned from the experiences behind him. He’s also the only barber I’ve known who tells his clients that he loves them when they leave. I’m not sure everyone gets this blessing, but I know I’m not the only one.
Two weeks ago, I showed up to my appointment a half-hour early. As I walked toward a comfortable, cozy chair, Ed greeted me as I walked by, and I looked up to see that he was cutting the hair of a twelve-year-old boy. I’ll call him Marshall.
As I sat down, my mind searched to understand the scene before me. The boy was sitting in the lap of a middle-aged woman in the barber’s chair, who I learned was a nursing aide. He wasn’t a small boy, so the visual woke my brain cells to think, What’s going on here? Across from the boy was another woman about the same age as the first, who I learned was Marshall’s mother. She was sitting on the sofa beside me.
Ed asked the mother about a recreational camper trailer he had seen for sale in the woman’s yard. She said the family loved camping, and the trailer was the perfect size for them. However, it wasn’t big enough to hold all of Marshall’s equipment, so they were selling it. They were going to have to give up camping.
That’s when I noticed Marshall didn’t seem to have control of his neck. His head leaned slightly downward. I also observed a bib that hung around Marshall’s neck over the barbershop apron. Ed occasionally lifted the bib to catch drool on the boy’s lips.
Further observation revealed that Marshall’s arms and wrists were curled. He appeared to have no apparent control over his limbs. I realized that the woman in the chair was helping to hold Marshall up.
Occasionally, the mother would stand up to reposition Marshall or catch some dribble with the bib. The banter between the three adults was like any other banter I’ve observed in the shop—just people talking about life. I even chimed in a couple of times as we were all sitting within a few feet of one another.
Marshall was aware of my presence. His eyes would sporadically look my way. I smiled at him with loving eyes, not sure if he picked up on my communication. His gaze didn’t last long because he couldn’t turn his head. He could only move his eyes, and I think it was a strain for him to look so far to his left.
I was moved by Ed’s handling of Marshall. He had a gentle knack for maneuvering the boy’s head with a supportive hold while shaving and cutting his hair. Ed’s tender touch and graceful movements indicated a level of comfort and competence with Marshall’s condition beyond just being a good barber. It was obvious that Ed had skills that he’d never told me about, and I’d known him for fifteen years or more.
Observing the haircut before me was heartwarming. Ed occasionally touched Marshall’s shoulder as if to say, I’m right here with you. He’d make a few cuts, lift the bib to wipe Marshall’s mouth, and talk to the boy like he would any adolescent. Marshall’s eyes responded to Ed’s banter by twinkling like children’s eyes do when they’re happy. He didn’t seem able to talk or nod his head. He didn’t appear to have control over his lips. It was his eyes that expressed what he wished to convey.
After carefully shaving Marshall’s neck, Ed removed the bib and the cape and softly brushed the hairs off the boy’s face. Marshall’s haircut looked exceptional. I’m pretty sure I saw a shelf full of bibs when Ed opened a cupboard to throw the cloth in a hamper.
Marshall’s mother wrapped one arm under his neck and another under his knees, lifting the twelve-year-old from the aide’s lap. She gently laid him on his back on the sofa. It seemed the boy could not sit upright without additional support, so she lay him flat.
Ed walked over to the sofa, looked Marshall in the eyes, and kissed his forehead while telling him how handsome he looked. The boy lit up with joy. I might have heard some version of a giggle, but that may have been coming from Ed. That’s when the nursing aide lifted Marshall off the sofa and carried him up a flight of stairs, refusing assistance from either Ed or me. She didn’t hesitate or gather up the strength. It was matter of fact, just a normal part of her day.
Once Marshall and the women had gone, Ed informed me that Marshall had Multiple Sclerosis (MS). I reflected to Ed that he seemed comfortable and knowledgeable working with the boy. He told me his parents required him to volunteer as a teenager at a respite care center. After asking him to explain further, he taught me that “respite” is a special term for “short-term relief for caregivers.” The center Ed worked at as a teenager was mostly filled with children with MS and Down Syndrome.
Ed told me that some children in the center stayed for a day, others for a few days, and others were there nearly every day. Ed became close with one boy, so his supervisor assigned him to that boy most of the time. He added that even though the children with Down Syndrome were there to be cared for, most of them helped with the children who had more significant needs. He said the love these kids had for people made them want to help the children with Multiple Sclerosis.
My mind began firing with thoughts of how Ed’s teenage experience at the respite care center had now extended into his work as a barber. Because he’s so experienced in working with kids with MS, news about Ed spread across the network of families living with this disease of the central nervous system. Consequently, families travel long distances to get haircuts from the man with the gentle heart and gifted hands who knows how to work with children with MS.
As Ed cut my hair, I couldn’t help but notice how my brief experience with Marshall had affected me. It gave my life perspective. Suddenly, my broken tooth or sore back seemed much less significant. I asked Ed if he’s ever just finished a haircut with a child with MS, only to have his next client whining about something petty, like the convenience store not having his favorite gum in stock. Ed laughed and said, “Yeah, that happens.” I wondered how he held himself back from smacking the guy in the back of the head. That’s certainly what the experience did for me. It was a gentle slap to remind me how blessed my life is.
Over the next week, I couldn’t shake Marshall from my mind. It wasn’t because I viewed his life as tragic or unfortunate, either. Observing him, his mother, and their aide revealed the opposite. They didn’t hold those negative energies. Their demeanor resonated with grace, acceptance, and joy, which seemed missing from many of the other barbershop patrons. I was lifted by their presence and the perspective they provided to anyone fortunate enough to observe them. It was a sharp realignment of what’s truly important in life.
A few days later, I saw a friend who asked me how I was mentally untangling the TIA I’d experienced in December. I reiterated what I wrote in my article about it. It was an incredible awakening. In reference to my visit to the ER, I shared with her what I had witnessed in the barbershop recently, explaining the perspective the experience provided me.
She told me she knew the family when I mentioned the boy’s name. She said that Marshall’s mother is an inspiring and remarkable human being, adding that she gives her son a full life. She said the aide is equally impressive. She told me that Marshall goes skiing in the winter and surfing in the summer. This was undoubtedly thanks to some equipment that couldn’t fit into the recreational vehicle.
I thought to myself how expensive it must be to raise a child with MS. I wished I had the means to buy the family an RV that could hold all Marshall’s equipment so they could continue to go camping, something his mother admitted to loving. Ed told me that raising a child with MS is a financial struggle for many of the families he knows. He mentioned one dad who rarely gets to see his children because he works so many hours to pay for the costly expenses related to the child with MS. On the other side of that situation, the mother raises all their children without her husband around to help.
I share this story with you today because it profoundly affected me. While a story can’t match the actual experience, we can absorb the lesson the experience teaches.
This week, I decided to show up early for my haircut to see what might result. The client before me was a young anthropologist studying indigenous cultures and on his way to becoming a professor at a state university. When one of the barbers asked why he was drawn to studying indigenous cultures, Ed explained that the client was a member of the Wabanaki Nation of Maine. The young man then explained his fascinating family history, and I couldn’t help but think, I really must show up early to all my haircuts from now on.
Thanks for reading my story. I would love to hear from you in the comments.
With love,
Bob
Bob Olson is the host of Afterlife TV, author of Answers About The Afterlife and The Magic Mala, and creator of the reputable directory of psychics, mediums, animal communicators, and intuitive practitioners, BestPsychicDirectory.com. This is Bob Olson Connect, where you can read his articles before they become books.
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Touching story! It is heartening to know there are compassionate, caring persons like Ed in this world,
you included.
We are leaving Australia for home tomorrow - sad to leave family here but looking forward to see family back home.
Thanks for the heart warming story. Keep them coming…..
Maureen
Beautiful story!