Patrick Gallagher
Oakland, California
formerly of Lumberville,
Pennsylvania
My mother recently emailed me with the news that Valentino “Gus” Librizzi had passed away. When I read the email, I was with a friend and was left to explain why the death of my boyhood barber had brought me to tears.
Gus began cutting my hair when I was 12 years old. My sister’s boyfriend at the time wisely suggested that I might make the move from my mom’s “stylist” to his “barber.” This was around the time that AT&T and MCI were in a heated advertising war that yielded the famous tag line “Tell them to put it in writing.”
I can remember sitting waiting for my first haircut, the phone ringing, and Gus listening intently and then saying, “Put it in writing.” He then put down the phone and calmly carried on cutting hair and making conversation with men he had known for decades.
That first time and for the next several years, my mom would drive me to Gus. We’d sit together waiting for my turn, patiently reading ruffled copies of newspapers, listening to the conversations of older men — the kinds that came with the natural ease of long friendship.
I think one of my mother’s biggest challenges in allowing me grow up was taking me to get my haircut with Gus. I think he reminded her of the kind of men with whom she grew up (or how she imagined them to be). Gruff, but caring. Certain, but gentle. He was a constant, steadying presence in a period of life that was often overwhelming and confusing. He remembered my name, my mom, my dad, where we lived, the things I liked to do. And without any sense of performance, he let you know that he remembered. And he did that with dozens of people every day of his life. He was the kind of man that makes a community.
A couple of years ago, I was back in Lambertville. I met up with a friend for dinner at Bell’s. As I entered the door, I saw Gus sitting just around the far side of the oblong bar. I walked over with my friend, said hello and we began chatting. He asked me how my parents were. I apologized jokingly for my somewhat shaggy hair. To which he responded, with a sly smile, “You never looked good with a hair cut anyway.” I told my friend that this was Gus. Gus turned and said, “Yeah, we’re old friends.” Hearing that was one of the best compliments I’ve ever received.