Some years ago, I came across a story in a magazine, possibly The New Yorker, entitled “Emil J. Paidar”. That name struck a familiar chord. I had seen it staring at me so often from the footrests of the barber chairs where I had my hair cut, in my early childhood, that it was practically embedded in my long-term memory.

The shop I visited for those haircuts in Jamaica was located on 166th Street, near the last station of the old elevated train on Jamaica Avenue, and a block from a bus terminal. Ben Katchor’s graphic art showing such a neighborhood perfectly describes the seedy and dilapidated atmosphere of this area.

The barbershop was located very close to the side, or stage, entrance of the Loew’s Valencia Theater. I would stand at the stage doors with my mother on one particular night of the week, when there was a drawing of some tawdry prize, as an added feature of the movie show. You either had to be inside the theater, if your number was called, or waiting outside the stage door, where the number was broadcast over speakers, and if you could fight your way through the crowd there (this was during the Depression, after all, and many people, including my widowed mother, couldn’t afford the price of admission) you could go up on the stage and claim your prize. I don’t ever remember her having won anything (whether it was a piece of china, or whatever), but I do remember standing out in the cold with her, hoping to hear our number being called.

I did infrequently actually attend the theater, most probably at a Saturday matinee. Children my age were forced to sit in the narrow side sections only, and a uniformed “matron” patrolled the aisle looking out for any wrongdoing, such as trying to sneak into the center sections. The acute viewing angle, from this vantage point, made every actor look like the “Thin Man.” This theater, incidentally, was one of the few with faux Spanish architecture (hence the name “Valencia”). Projections of clouds slowly moved across the ceiling, giving the impression of an outdoor courtyard open to the sky at night. Sometimes watching those “clouds” was more interesting than watching the movies themselves.

Getting back to the barbershop, there was a sole proprietor named Abraham Fagin, who lived on Snedeker Avenue, in Brooklyn. (I gleaned this information from his State of New York Barber License in a frame hanging from the wall.) He was a short, middle-aged man, with black wiry hair. Looking back on it now, I never saw another person getting his hair cut while I was there. His scissors kept up a continuous “clip-clip” - whether he was in the act of cutting hair or not. It was as if he had motorized fingers that worked at a constant rate. He always addressed me as “Sonny,” a convenient way not to have to remember or even know a boy’s name. I gave him a quarter for the haircut each time, and he pocketed it without comment. (Who knew about tips in those frugal days? I certainly wouldn’t be expected to).»