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	Photo: Paul Skrentny

Kevin Clark drives all the way from Orinda to get his hair cut at Al’s Barber Shop on Webster Street.

“It’s like the barbershops I remember as a little kid, when my dad used to take me,” he says. “The guys all look like my father did, of that era. The barber himself doesn’t change, so it’s like being in another world, from another time.”

See, when a guy like Clark—he’s in his mid-50s with a sandy, close-cut head of hair—walks into a barbershop, he doesn’t want surprises. Continuity means something. Across town at The Razor’s Edge, a guy in search of a haircut will see one of two barbers—Dick Kellogg or Steve Nelson—and will probably walk out with the same haircut he’s always had. Every barber cuts hair more or less the same way anyway, and it’s all over in 10 or 15 minutes.

But a guy goes to a barbershop because it’s a barbershop, not a salon or spa. It’s a haven for a straightforward haircut in an era of waxings, highlights and cucumber facials. There are no appointments, no added fees—and no foot massages. And it’s been that way for a long time, which keeps customers coming back.

The barbershop, traditionally, is a man’s world. The men who frequent them don’t miss the frills or fancy décor of a salon. The barbershop customer seeks a different kind of comfort and visits these small, spare shops because they’re dependable and inexpensive, and their barbers give good quality haircuts. Clients gravitate toward the distinct male aesthetic that eschews trendy fashion magazines and aromatic flower arrangements. The tools, tonic and lather are set against a classic 1950s backdrop: smoked glass, wood paneling, wallpaper decorated with hunting decoys. Beneath displays of unbreakable combs, pocket hairbrushes and old-time tonic bottles, there are newsweeklies spread across shelves along with comic books and Sports Illustrated magazines. (Today’s barbershop could be the only public place where it’s still all right to check out the centerfold of this month’s playmate in Playboy.)

Barbershops also entice and comfort with their nostalgic familiarity—from red-and-white barber poles to swiveling leather chairs and mirrors. “This is the only place in town that doesn’t change,” explains Bill Wilmouth, a retired sailor and Alameda resident since 1950, of his haunt, Dick’s Barber Shop. “I can come in here, and it’ll be the same every time.”

Barbershops like Al’s, The Razor’s Edge and Dick’s have seemingly always been centers for social exchange. Barbershops are where men have lingered to read the morning paper, where they have gossiped about politics and where they have chatted about sports and the weather. And in Alameda’s barbershops, they still do. “It’s busy,” Kellogg says, characterizing the pace of his barbershop and the years he’s spent there with generations of Alamedans. “People come in to find out where other people are. It’s like an information booth.” Some of Kellogg’s customers literally have been clients for a lifetime and then introduced their sons and grandsons to the same chair and the same barber. “People come into town for the holidays or on vacation, and they stop in to talk and catch up on all their old friends,” Kellogg says.

Typical banter at most barbershops—and his is no exception—weaves current events with local politics, with funnymen throwing in a few jokes for good laughs. Practically every customer has something to add to the conversations, so there’s much more to barbershops than the quick, efficient haircut that the barbers crank out. The barbershop sprouts its own community life, where participants take—and make—the time for civic banter.

“I like to go where I can catch up with the town,” Dave Oliver says of Kellogg’s shop. “It’s [like] the corner pub, like the Cheers theme: A guy wants to go where everyone knows his name.”

Even though barbershops by nature have many similarities, each one usually—and this holds true in Alameda—has its own distinct personality. The Razor’s Edge, for instance, is well known as the athlete’s stop. Autographed photographs of famous athletes cover the walls, and a large glass case shows off sports memorabilia. The barbershop displays signed footballs from the original “Silver and Black Attack” Oakland Raiders, and a framed, signed jersey of basketball star Jason Kidd hangs on a wall. Raiders great Kenny Stabler was a regular, and former Warriors star Chris Mullin still comes in for his haircut. Above Kellogg’s chair is a signed print of one of Mullin’s Nike advertisements. It says: “NBA All-Star, Gold Medalist, Must Be the Haircut.” Mullin has scribbled a personal note to Kellogg that says, “It’s the Haircut.”

Not one to be influenced by his famous customers, Kellogg takes it all in stride. “He’s just like any of my customers when he comes into the shop,” Kellogg explains. “He waits his turn.” And on some Saturday mornings, there are a lot of people in line.

Across in town, Dick Denton, who stood one chair over from Kellogg in barbering college some 50 years ago, runs a brisk business on the West End at Dick's Barber Shop. He bought a four-chair shop in 1958, during the barbering heyday on Webster Street. Now he keeps one chair warm four days a week. Denton is the barber of choice for Coast Guard admirals, and Navy commandants and vice-commandants, but cuts flattops, crew cuts and just plain old haircuts for anyone who walks in his door.

Another long-standing name in the business is Corica. Brothers Tony and Frank were barbers in the 1930s and 1940s. (Frank Corica’s shop is intact today at the Alameda Museum.) Tony Corica worked side-by-side with his son Chuck, who went on to be a three-term mayor of Alameda, in the barbershop at Union Street and Lincoln Avenue. (Chuck Corica kept the shop open for shaves and haircuts during his tenure.) “Without the barbershop, I doubt he would’ve been involved in politics,” explains Tony Corica, Chuck’s son. “Where else can you do grassroots politics? A barber has a way of eliciting conversation and getting to know you. There is an emphasis on being able to communicate.”

Tony Corica remembers pushing the large broom around the shop to clean up at the end of a day, and he can’t forget the smell of antiseptic and Old Spice after shave lotion. He also remembers the old church pews along the barbershop wall and how people lined up outside on Saturday mornings for a haircut. “My dad’s shop was 10-by-10 with 10 people in the room at any given time,” Tony Corica recalls, summing up the atmosphere of his pop’s shop as “a man’s hang-out. With all those people in the room, you were going to hear someone’s opinion—whether you liked it or not.” Diehard customers may wax poetic about barbershops like Denton’s, Kellogg’s and Corica’s, but the truth is such barbershops are fast disappearing, and practitioners of the age-old craft are hanging up their shears. “Who will take over this shop when I’m gone?” muses Denton, reclining in his leather barber’s chair on a recent morning.

But for now, new generations are being introduced to barbershop culture from one side of the Island to the other. Back at The Razor’s Ege, a young customer demands some flair, ordering, “Spike it up!” He is 5, maybe 6, but this kid knows what he wants. Sitting high on a block nestled into the barber’s chair, the boy stiffens his neck and holds his head to one side as Kellogg trims around his ear. The boy wants to look just right. A bit of gel, a quick comb up in the front, and he’s now a young man. Dick Kellogg stands back from the chair and spins it around so the boy can see his reflection in the mirror. The kid is happy, Mom is happy and then there’s Kellogg, already inviting his next customer to sit back in the wide, leather chair.