Barbershops in Sonora in the 1950’s

One would think that getting ones hair cut would be a straightforward matter. After all, it isn’t rocket science. All that’s required is some skill with scissors and a victim to practice it on. But, like most things in life, nothing is as it appears at first blush.

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Back when I was too young to remember, my mother started taking me to Torok’s barbershop in Sonora to get my hair cut. The visits I do recall from that time were mostly happy ones. Mr. Torok was kind and considerate and he always made me feel that he was glad I was there. Mr. Torok’s son cut hair alongside his father, but it was always the elder man who cut my hair.

There was one visit, however, in which things didn’t turn out as usual. Apparently, up until that time, I had always sung a song for the barber on request. I have no memory of this other than what my mother told me, but, as the story goes, when Mr. Torok gently encouraged me to sing for him on this particular occasion, I refused. Despite some additional prodding, I wouldn’t have any of it!  I maintained my position, stubbornly refusing to play along, disregarding the barber’s obvious signs of disappointment.

Prior to that visit , I was told, I had always obliged when requested to sing for Mr. Torok. I have no doubt I loved the attention I received for my performances. After all, who doesn’t like a little positive attention now and then? But that was before I’d begun to become more aware of all the little ways in which self-consciousness can stir doubts in the mind. Once I discovered how uncomfortable embarrassment could feel, I added it to my list of things, like pain and being told “no,” that I determined to avoid whenever possible.  

Torok’s Barbershop was located in a mostly residential neighborhood, sandwiched in between the back parking lot of a popular local eatery and a single-family residence on a side street a couple of blocks south of the main Street businesses that were the focal point of the little town in which I grew up.

There were at least three barbershops in Sonora back in those days. One was on Sonora’s main thoroughfare, Washington Street, just down from the little park that graced the town square adjacent to the stately early 20th century courthouse. The owner of this establishment, a man named Pete Ghiorso, enjoyed a popularity with the town’s athletic folk that dated back to the 1920s, when the Sonora team was deeply involved in a regional baseball league. The walls of Pete’s barbershop were festooned with old photos of baseball stars from that period.

Another of Pete’s hobbies was collecting natural gold. Over the years, he had amassed a formidable and stunning collection of specimen gold that was reportedly worth more than 50K in 1950 dollars.  Pete would sometimes display his horde at the local county fair; he also once loaned it to the Nugget Casino in Sparks, Nevada for display in their casino.

But the one thing about Pete that’s stayed with me for all these years is the way he  cut my hair. All the other barbers in town would cut people’s hair according to the wishes of their customers. . . all except Pete, that is. With Pete, it didn’t seem to  matter how you told him you wanted your hair cut; you would always end up with the same 1930s-style Depression-era haircut. To make things worse, Pete always seemed to derive satisfaction from doing it that way, smiling as he finished as if he’d been enjoying an inside joke that required membership in some sort of secret society in order to understand.

I’ve often found myself wondering over the years if Pete did that to everyone whose hair he cut or if he only saved that treatment for teenagers, considering the joy he seemed to derive from the act. I remember one such instance in particular—the time I had finally figured out how to completely articulate the way I wanted my hair to appear when he was finished. The results, unsurprisingly, were the same as always, but Pete seemed more satisfied with himself than usual.  

That was the last time I went to Pete’s barbershop to get my hair cut. The experience brings to mind that old quote about insanity being doing the same thing over and over expecting different results!

By that point, Pete’s haircuts had become an IQ test for me; returning for another disappointment would have amounted to flunking the test.

I continued patronizing Torok’s Barbershop into my adult years. It was there that I first read about Timothy Leary and his experiments with lsd in an article in the San Francisco Chronicle back around 1962. Mr. Torok’s grandson was one of my classmates in school, but as far as I know he never took up his family’s profession. 

Both Pete and Mr. Torok are now long gone and their shops have been closed for years. Pete’s location was taken over by a succession of different enterprises and Torok’s Barbershop has become a neglected and abandoned old building that is now a blight on the neighborhood.

Change is a mixed bag—sometimes it’s for the good but often not without undesired complications. The one thing about change that never changes is the certainty that things will change.

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