Roy Virgil Pruitt died last Thursday at the age of 90. He was my grandfather, but I always called him Pop.
He
grew up on a farm, worked on an auto assembly line, went back to
farming, and finally found his true calling when he became a barber.
Here's a pic of Pop giving me my first-ever haircut at his barber shop in Benton, Arkansas:
This was the first of many, many a haircut I would get from my Pop. In
fact, I never got a haircut from anyone but him until I was maybe 8 or
9 years old -- and boy, was
that a rude awakening!
My
Pop regarded each haircut as a labor of love and craftsmanship. He was
an absolute perfectionist in his work. It was the most comforting,
soothing part of my world growing up, those seemingly endless minutes
-- maybe it was a half an hour or more -- in the chair as Pop lovingly
snip snip snipped, and combed, and snipped, and paused to appraise his
progress. I almost always drifted off into a reverie just this side of
sleep.
So when my dad took me to the East End Barber Shop in
Searcy for my first "real" trip to the barber, I was shocked and
frankly a little apalled at the whole experience. That man had me in
and out of his chair in maybe 10 minutes, tops. It was a rude awakening
to the world of hair cuts by people who are not your Pop.
In
Pop's barber shop, he had a big red coke machine, the kind where for a
nickel or dime you got the little tiny bottles that packed such a
punch. He also had a ton of comic books! They were pretty well-worn,
since every kid that came in there read them. Some had no covers
anymore. But they were a treasure trove of entertainment on those days
when I'd spend the day with Pop, all day long, reading comics, drinking
cokes, eating potted meat on crackers and exploring the acre or so of
undeveloped land behind his shop, where you could find old busted up
pottery in many places.
In the photo of him cutting my hair,
you'll notice he's smoking a pipe. He loved his pipes. But once I got
to be big enough to really take note of the fact that he smoked, and
started trying to emulate him with a little corncob pipe, he quit
smoking altogether so as to not be a bad influence on me.
My
Pop was by no means a saint. He had plenty of flaws and faults, and the
waning days of his life, when my mom and dad had to care for him, were
a hard time for all concerned. But there's one thing at least that he
got absolutely right in his life: he made his only grandson feel like
the absolute most important, most loved, and luckiest boy in the world.
I'm
very thankful Pop lived long enough to meet my little boy. I know it
meant a lot to him and brightened his last days, seeing this beautiful
new life just getting started.
Goodbye, Pop. I love you, and I'll miss seeing you.