Barbers and Barbershops in the Old West: Part One by Vicky J. Rose, aka V. J. Rose, Easy Jackson

At the end of his cattle drive, the first thing a cowboy did was to buy new clothes and visit a barbershop. Whether or not the sign said barbershop or tonsorial parlor, because of the distinctive red, white, and blue pole, left over from the days when barbers practiced surgical techniques such as bloodletting, the cowboy would have little trouble finding it regardless of his ability to read. 

Most barbershops were open seven days a week, from about 9 a.m. to 11:00 p.m., closing at noon on Sunday. If the cowboy arrived on Saturday, chances are the barbershop would be packed with waiting people. Women sometimes did go into barbershops to have their hair cut, but because their hair was often thicker and more difficult for the barber, the general rule was no women and children on Saturday.

The rather phallic looking barber pole hanging in
the photo of this San Antonio barbershop
was quite common in the Old West.

The barbershop could be elaborate or small and plain, depending on the size of the town. The barber could be operating in the back of a saloon, especially in the far-flung mining towns where he might have a chair in the rear of a tent. However, using a razor and scissors on men fueled with alcohol is risky business, and most barbers would try to set up in their own shop as soon as possible. This was the Victorian era, and the barber would want to have the most ornate furnishings he could afford, most of which came from specialty mail-order houses. Every barbershop would have one or more spittoons, unless it had dirt flooring.

A barbershop/shoe repair shop near the Texas border.

Elizabeth Street, Brownsville, Texas, c.a. 1865
The barbershop is on the right next to a hotel.

 Inside the barbershop, the cowboy would catch up on all the news on a national, state, and local level. He would be advised on the best place to spend the night, have a meal, or find female companionship. In busy shops, the barber would employ porters to help with the towels, hone razors, refill urns with hot water, along with filling and emptying tubs. If the barber had children, boys as young as seven might be taught to shave customers on busy Saturdays.  

When it came his turn in the chair, the cowboy would sit in a high chair with a separate footstool. The reclining chair as we know it was not patented until 1881, and then it quickly caught on. If the cowboy had ridden into a place like Dodge City in the latter part of the 1800s, he would have checked in his guns at the sheriff’s or marshal’s office when he came into town. If not, to avoid discomfort, he would remove his pistol from its holster and place it in firing position on his lap, allowing the barber to cover it with his cape.

The cowboy would lean his head back, and hot damp towels would be placed over his face to soften his beard. Ideally, as the towels cooled, twice more warmer ones would take their place. After removing the towels, barbers in rustic areas would use a basin of water and a ball of soap to lather up, using their fingers to apply the lather to the cowboy’s beard. By 1870, most barbers were using shaving mugs with round bars of soap and shaving brushes, preferably made of badger hair. In large towns, there might be an elegant cabinet to hold personalized shaving mugs of regular customers.

San Angelo, Texas
Note the racks of shaving mugs belonging to customers.

Razors from the 1830s onward could have highly etched blades with trademarks, mottos, and ads. During the Civil War, blades with eagles, flags, and “Save the Union” on them were very popular in the North. The handles could be made of ivory, bone, mother of pearl, or gutta-percha. Most, however, were made of black or clear horn. Barbershops used the plainest one, but the barber would often have seven razors lined up in a row, the theory being that it would keep the blade sharper if it was allowed to “rest.” Before beginning, the barber would sharpen his razor, running it up and down the leather strop that would usually be hanging from his chair. A strop made of horsehide was considered the best.

When he finished shaving the cowboy, the barber would wipe his face with a towel that had most likely been used on several previous customers. He would then pat on Bay Rum shaving lotion and use a styptic pencil on any cuts he might have made. Jockey Club fragrance for men was launched in 1840 and became extremely popular.

After the shave, the cowboy would sit up straighter. If the barber was short, and the cowboy was tall, the barber would stand on a wooden box. In the 1800s, there were several popular hairstyles—the Jackson style, combed back and short like Andrew Jackson, or the half-shingle, the quarter shingle, and the pompadour. However, because barbering was unregulated until the beginning of the twentieth century, the cowboy’s barber may have only known one haircut, which he gave to everybody.

While the cowboy was getting his haircut, a dog might wander into the shop and plop down. Someone might start singing or playing a musical instrument, particularly at night, when barbershops often became places for jam sessions. If the barber was tired, he might be so loquacious, it would irritate the cowboy who was used to the quietness of the open plains. Or the barber might be so exhausted, he would be cranky and not inclined to conversation, also possibly aggravating the cowboy who might yearn for human interaction.

When the barber finished with the scissors, he would use the razor to shave the back of the neck. After combing or brushing the head to make sure all the loose hair was removed, he would use a soft brush sprinkled with powder to brush hair from the cowboy’s neck and shoulders. Some barbers were also quite proficient at giving the shoulders and neck a quick massage. If the barbershop was also a bathhouse, the barber would ask the cowboy if he wanted a bath.

A derelict barbershop in Virginia City, Montana

The cowboy could be shaved, have a haircut, and bathe for about 75 cents. Although price wars in places like New York City were common, the phrase “Shave and a Haircut—Two Bits,” is good fit for the time frame of the Old West. For fresh water in his bathtub, the cowboy would probably pay 50 cents, but if he was willing to bathe in used water, the price might drop to 25 cents. On Saturday, however, the price of a bath might rise up to 75 cents. Before the faster manual hair clippers came into use in the latter part of the nineteenth century, a scissor cut and shave would take about 45 minutes.

If the cowboy stayed in town for a while, he would likely visit the barbershop three times a week to be shaved. If he developed an interest in a member of the fairer sex, he would bathe once a week, whether he thought he needed it or not, and get his hair trimmed every two weeks, or possibly every week should he think the situation warranted it.

In The Trail Drivers of Texas, compiled by J. Marvin Hunter, Jack Potter tells of joining a trail drive in 1882 headed for Colorado, near Greeley, as a sixteen-year-old cowboy in San Antonio. His wages were $30 a month and transportation back. On the way home, he stopped in Denver, going into a barbershop near the St. Charles Hotel.

“When the barber finished with me, he asked if I wanted a bath, and when I said yes, a negro porter took me down the hallway and into a side room. He turned on the water, tossed me a couple of towels and disappeared.”

Potter removed his clothes, letting the water run until the tub was nearly full. Not realizing the water was coming straight from a hot boiler, he hopped in, screamed “like a Comanche” and jumped out again, slipping and falling on the marble floor. After flopping around, he managed to get up using a chair for a brace. He stood fanning himself with his big Stetson hat and examining his feet to see if he still had toenails.  Like the jokester most cowboys were, he related this scalding incident with a laugh many years later.             

       

End of Part One of Two
Click here to read Part Two: Barbers and Barbershops in the Old West: Part Two

Resources: The Vanishing American Barbershop: An Illustrated History of Tonsorial Art, 1860-1960 by Ronald S. Barlow; http://www.kristinholt.com/archives/7229; http://www.kristinholt.com/archives/7413; https://whatdoeshistorysay.blogspot.com/2014/01/history-of-american-barbershop.html; http://www.todayifoundout.com/index.php/2013/10/bloody-history-barber-pole/; http://www.nationalbarbermuseum.org/about/barbering-timeline; https://www.instructables.com/id/Fire-Shaving/; https://www.historynet.com/dalton-gang;

Papa Married a Mormon by John D. Fitzgerald; Barber Instructor and Toilet Manual by Frank C. Bridgeford; Shannon Hartsnagel Interview

Click here to buy A BAD PLACE TO DIE
Click here to buy A SEASON IN HELL
Click here to buy TESTIMONY
Click here to buy TREASURE HUNT IN TIE TOWN

And coming soon from Five Star Publishing:

MUSKRAT HILL

A Frontier Mystery

The Western Fictioneers Library -- The Trail Brothers by Troy D. Smith

The legendary days of the cattle drive era come to vivid life in THE TRAIL BROTHERS by award-winning Western author Troy D. Smith. This classic novel follows a group of cowboys, young and old, as they push a thousand head of stubborn cattle north from Texas to the railhead in Kansas, encountering Indians, outlaws, and a vengeful lynch mob along the way. If they manage to survive the dangers that dog their trail, by the time they return to Texas they truly will be brothers for as long as they live.

Troy D. Smith is a past winner of the Peacemaker and Spur Awards, and current president of Western Fictioneers. He teaches American Indian history at Tennessee Tech University. Smith is one of the most highly regarded young authors of Western fiction, and this compelling, action-packed novel is a good example of why he has that reputation. For a great yarn, saddle up and ride with THE TRAIL BROTHERS.

Sample:

PROLOGUE

September, 1914

   A.C. Royal walked down the shady street, hoping that the East River would take pity on him and roll a breeze his way. It was to no avail. His gait was considerably slower than it had been a half-century before. This was strange when he thought on it, which was often, because the world seemed to turn so much more quickly now.

   He reached his destination, a brownstone building, which he picked out from among the many others which seemed identical to it. He heaved a tired sigh and straightened himself to a suitably dignified posture. He banged on the door with his oaken walking stick.

   A brightly-garbed doorman appeared, his annoyance fading into neutral subservience when he saw his guest. "Mister Royal, so pleased to see you, sir," he said. He was not convincing. "This way, please."

   Royal followed him into the drawing room, silently basking in the breeze of the electric fans.

   "Mister A.C. Royal," the doorman announced loudly to the half-dozen gentlemen who sat chatting and smoking cigars.

   "Is that who I am?" Royal said in mock surprise. "Damn! I've been trying to think of that all day, it was right on the tip of my tongue."

   Unamused, the doorman half-heartedly held out his hand. When nothing was forthcoming, he disappeared.

   "Really, A.C.," said a fat, balding man of around fifty. "Haven't you ever heard of tipping?"

   "I've heard it's bad for you if you're in a canoe. Besides, Walsh, if you paid your help they wouldn't go around looking for handouts."

   Walsh chuckled to his other guests. "Leave it to Royal to refuse to tip my help, and then make me out to be the cheapskate!"

   Royal settled himself, with some difficulty, into an armchair. "If people paid me to open doors," he muttered, "I never would have gotten a real job."

   "Everything's work with you, isn't it?" another guest said with a smile. This man, like Royal, was in his seventies. Unlike the new arrival, however, he was clean-shaven and still had a touch of color in his hair.

   "It is anymore," Royal agreed. "Even walking. Hoffman here knows what I'm talking about," he said to the rest of the group. "You others aren't far from finding out. Before too many years, they'll have to bring the dancing girls to Evans, instead of the other way around. And he'll spend more time rememberin' what to do with 'em than he'll spend doin' it."

   Evans, who was even more corpulent than Walsh, flushed with anger. "I beg your pardon!" he exclaimed.

   "Don't beg mine," Royal said. "Save that for your wife, if she ever catches you at it."

   "Sir!" Evans shouted, struggling almost comically to leap from his chair.

   "Oh, sit down," Royal said with a snort. "Show a little good humor. When you get to be my age, you can say whatever you like. That's just about the only benefit you get out of the deal, so you learn to use it liberally."

   Evans allowed himself to fall back into place. Hoffman said, "When I met you twenty years ago, Royal, you spoke just as freely as you do now."

   "Yeah, but I was just practicin' then. Now I'm serious about it. My presence is the price the rest of you fellows have to pay for joinin' Walsh's little gentleman's club."

   A servant entered, bearing a tray. He had a decanter of brandy. He refilled the guests' glasses.

   "Are you lookin' for a handout too, Vince?" Royal demanded when he passed

   "Not today, sir. I brought your customary bottle of whiskey, sir." 

   "Good man," Royal said, taking the offered bottle and a glass. He spoke to a guest who was hidden behind a newspaper as he poured. "What about you, Thomas? You don't seem to have much to say. Did America suddenly decide to stop smoking, or did they just decide to stop smoking your brand?"

   "Oh, nothing like that," Thomas said. "I was just reading about the war in Europe. The entire affair is mind-boggling."

   "I'm glad my mind isn't as easily boggled as yours," Royal grunted. "A bunch of Europeans are shooting at each other. They do it every few years. It's like the Olympics."

   "Do you think we'll get involved?" asked Milne, the real estate man.

   "Either way, I'll make a killing," said Austin, the munitions man. "So to speak." No one laughed, and he shrugged, unconcerned.

   "I think we ought to help the Germans," Walsh said. "After all, a lot of us have German blood, like Hoffman here. And who cares about a bunch of Serbs and Russians?"

   "But what about the English?" said Evans.

   "That does complicate things," Walsh agreed. "What about you, Royal? What do you think?"

   "I, like all sensible people, think we should mind our own business."

   "You're joking!" said Evans. "Besides Austin, you have more to gain than any of us. Warships use a lot of fuel, you know."

   Royal shook his head, his white beard wagging softly. "War is a foul thing. No one that has looked on it once wants to do so again unless it's absolutely necessary." He reached toward Thomas. "Hand me that paper," he said, his tone sharp. "There's bound to be somethin' in here that's more worth talkin' about."

   Thomas, smiling, obeyed. Royal rustled through the pages, snorting. "Europe, Europe, Europe. Apparently, the only time somethin' interesting happens on this side of the Atlantic is when I do it."

He continued to turn pages impatiently. He stopped when he was near the end. He became stock-still, his mouth dropped slightly open in genuine surprise.

   "What is it?" Thomas demanded. "Did I miss something noteworthy?"

   The others began to question him as well, but they were all ignored. He read the article in apparent fascination.

   Evans walked behind Royal's chair and stared over his shoulder. He looked confused. "It's about a nigger professor," he announced to the others.

   "Oh, I read that article," Thomas said. "A visiting Negro professor, giving a lecture tonight. Where's the excitement in that?"

   "I know this man," Royal said finally. "I never expected to see him again, though."

   Thomas laughed. "What, did your father own him?"

   "Hmm? No . . . no. I've heard him speak before. He's—very motivational."

   "Don't tell me you're thinking about attending?" Hoffman said.

   "I am considering it."

   "Don't you think it would tarnish your image a bit to be seen consorting with niggers?" Evans said with a sneer.

   "I doubt it. If I go to a Negro meeting, will the nation stop buying fuel?"

   Evans threw up his hands in frustration. "Why don't you go to a Jewish synagogue while you're at it, so you can cover everybody?"

   "Evans is afraid that the Jews will take his money," Walsh told Royal with a grin.

   "He shouldn't worry," Royal said. "I doubt they'd have it."

   The guests laughed, all except Evans. Then gradually the talk turned to other matters, and the Negro professor was forgotten. Some of the club members found it noteworthy, however, that the semi-retired oil man had little further to say that evening. If that was uncharacteristic, even more so was the fact that Royal's eyes were closed. His breathing was regular, so no one was alarmed. They merely took it as a sign that his advanced age was finally catching up with him.

   As far as the gentlemen's club was concerned, he could just as well be a thousand miles away.

   nook

Review Roundup: Grave Dealings

Sipping Whiskey in a Shallow Grave
By Mark Mitten
Sunbury Press, November 2012
$16.95 paperback, ISBN 1620061465
$4.99 Kindle, ASIN B00A62VXYY
338 pages

As the brutal winter of 1887 descends upon Colorado’s high country, cowhands, miners, townsfolk, lawmen, and even outlaws go about their daily routine, never suspecting their disparate lives are about to intersect in a freakish, though inevitable, series of events that will change them all forever. Metaphorically speaking, no one escapes this tale alive.

Mark Mitten’s debut novel is not for the squeamish or the faint of heart. The landscape is harsh; some of the people even harsher. From the outset, Mitten pulls no punches in depicting death, destruction, and a hollowness of the soul that is difficult to confront. Perhaps that’s the essence of the book, though: By forcing readers up close with both the innocent and the twisted, he forces them to consider the dichotomies inherent in being human.

Sipping Whiskey in a Shallow Grave, nominated for the 2013 Best Western First Novel Peacemaker Award, is not an easy, recreational read. That is a warning, not criticism. Mitten’s voice is distinctive; his characterizations are fresh, engaging, and genuine. Dialogue and actions resonate with authenticity. The cast list is extensive, though, and the novel’s uncommon format frequently leaps between locations, subplots, and character subsets without a hint of segue. Everything ties together in the end, but keeping track of the various threads and players may be a bigger challenge than casual readers feel comfortable undertaking. This book requires a commitment — not that commitment is a bad thing.

Ultimately, Sipping Whiskey is a story of perseverance and survival; of redemption and damnation. As his style matures, Mitten will be an author to watch … if only to ensure one of his characters doesn't sneak up behind you with a weapon.


Kathleen Rice Adams is a Texan, a voracious reader, a professional journalist, and a novelist in training. She received a review copy of Sipping Whiskey in a Shallow Grave from the publisher. Her opinions are her own and are neither endorsed nor necessarily supported by Western Fictioneers or individual members of the organization.