Adolfo cuts my hair. He listens to my woes and wonders. He hears my yearnings to constantly improve gardens, public spaces, and the environment along with complaints about my ever-expanding belly or the state of the world. He hears my lengthy list of laments and frustrations. It is not all dark clouds. There are plenty of laughs and humorous stories shared between us. The other barbers at Frank’s Barber Shop in Rye are never shy to offer their opinions. The combined input of this think tank is superior to any pedantic periodical or talking heads cable show. When in doubt, head to the barber shop. If you behave, you may even receive a lollipop.
Back in the barber chair, I am moaning about a landscape project. Adolfo stops clipping, places his hands on my shoulders, looks earnestly at my reflection in the mirror and says, “Gardening is like barbering, you must always use sharp tools.” I am left silent. I sit there pondering his comment the same way the president of the United States pondered Chance’s comments in the movie, Being There. Adolfo has spoken. He looks down at my hair, twists my head and continues to clip my mangy mane.
Then there are times when nothing needs to be said. Adolfo hunches his shoulders, cocks his head, gives me a quick look in the mirror, as he keeps clipping. This response usually leaves me reflecting on what the heck did I just say, anyway. The trivialness of my comment becomes clear. It moves me to eject that dumb, nagging thought from my noggin, making space for more important matters. Yet, the reality is more trivia will sneak back into my head just like weeds sneaks back into my gardens. If so, the simple remedy is to head to the barber shop.
Every time I visit the barber shop, I know I shall receive much more than a fresh cut. Aldolfo always has something to say to make me a better landscape architect. The other day I was babbling about a public sector property project that for whatever reason fell into disrepair. The structures, pathways, and signs lacked care or looked forgotten. The extensive grounds were overwhelmed by invasive plants. Work needed to be done wherever I looked. How could this have happened? How to turn this around? How to motivate staff to do what they should have been doing? How to get staff to embrace, not resent, change. How to get the resources and funding to accomplish the work? Oh, the how’s went on and on.
Once again, Adolfo stopped cutting, placed his hands on my shoulders a bit firmer this time, looked earnestly into the mirror, and said, “Just start.” All my years of study at various universities, a wall of sheepskins supposedly documenting what I know combined with professional licensing, teaching at The New York Botanical Gardens, writing in various periodicals, and working decades to perfect my efforts were summed up in two words ala Adolfo.
Is he channeling Lao Tzu, “The journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step?” Is he a modern-day journeyman sensei? Or just a wide-eyed sensible fella in a polyester barber jacket who can separate the wheat from the chaff of life?
I left that day with a fresh cut and a fresh attitude. I cleared my schedule and as Adolfo said, “Just start.’ I did. Along the way there were many a trip, stumble, grumble, push back, and delay, but I just kept starting. Today, that public park facility is better. Sure, there is still more work to do. So, I will, ‘Just Start,’ again. Whether it is gardening or life, I think when searching for advice, Adolfo knows.
