This I Believe

I can’t remember how long I’ve been going to Sal Tantillo in West Concord for my haircuts. It must be seven or eight years by now. Given my current follicular status, it’s kind of amazing that Sal even knows my name. I ought to be in and out of his chair in five minutes. Truth to tell, there’s just not that much there to cut.

But every month or so, even us bald guys need a trim to look sharp. Sal has cut my hair for my wedding, for public appearances, for my son’s bar mitzvah, for a long list of important life moments. And over the years, my hair appointments have morphed into something more. My haircuts with Sal are really encounter sessions, discussions of life and philosophy and theology. I’m sure we’ve never talked about the weather or the stock market. We have strayed now and again and discussed Little League, corned beef and bocce. Occasionally, Sal breaks into song with his sweet tenor voice that he has honed during years of barbershop quartet competitions.

What we’ve mostly had is a long, running conversation, a conversation between two middle-aged guys from very different backgrounds who have found common ground in a swivel chair in front of a mirror. And Sal, being the artiste he is, can transform a five-minute trim into a 40-minute extravaganza just like that. When we get onto an intense subject, like religion or families, Sal seems to cut one hair at a time. He snips a bit here, a bit there. He cleans up the back of my neck. He trims my beard. He does a shampoo.

Being Italian, born in Sicily, raised in the Bronx, Sal can stop in mid-trim, wave his scissors dramatically to make a point, and has yet to draw blood. Once, I’ll admit, we really got going and he nearly shaved my head. It was short, let me tell you, and when I got home, my wife was not thrilled. I said, “Honey, we were talking about Jesus and one of the apostles. Sal was into it. What could I do?”

Sal loves to talk about the bible, about Jesus, about the meaning of religion in his life. This Saturday, in fact, Sal is going to be ordained a deacon at The Cathedral of St. Paul in Worcester. He will assist as deacon of the Mass the following day at his own church, St. Anna’s in Leominster. It is a milestone moment for him, one that he has studied for for over a year. It is, in fact, a calling.

As a short, bald Jewish guy, I’m proud as hell of Sal. While I don’t embrace his religious beliefs, I am more than impressed by his dedication and zeal. His is not the zeal of a missionary. He never proselytizes. He tells me stories from the bible, stories that he has had to study and analyze and write homilies about. He listens when I tell him about Judaism; about my skepticism of organized religions, about how it seems that religion has actually served to pull men apart more than it has brought them together.

I’ve never really believed in God, at least not the God with a long white beard who watches over us in heaven and makes sure bad things won’t happen. Not the God that people pray to in churches, synagogues and mosques. I do believe that the universe is a mysterious, unknown place and that there are forces at work well beyond our knowledge or understanding. I know, for example, that the love man summons into his life in the face of tragedy, despair, anger, hatred and fear must emanate from some special place. I’ve often wondered if I would find comfort in prayer, if I could ever bring myself to let go and stand in the shadows of my own uncertainty.

Sal has a gentle way of embracing Jesus and his faith. He has faced enough trauma in his own life to have come to the conclusion that this is as real as the air he breathes. When he tells me about some parable in the bible, scissors raised high toward the fluorescent lights, I can feel that it is alive for him deep inside his soul. I may have too much cynicism to embrace the words, but I do envy the emotion.

And when he finally powders my neck and lifts the sheet from my shoulders, my cut hairs cascading to the floor, I check out his handiwork in the mirror, surprised that we are actually done. The conversation concludes, for now, but I know with Sal and me, we will pick up without missing a beat the next time, a lifetime’s worth of joy and sorrow to discuss when the hair grows thick on the sides and the beard needs a trim.