Throughout my boyhood ('till I left for college), I had my haircut at this establishment. It all started when my dad brought me to his barber when I was very small (in this location), and it was that man whom I only recall cutting my hair throughout the late '70s / '80s (about every 6 weeks).
My dad's barber, Slyvester, was tall and handsome with permed, shoulder-length blonde locks (he resembled a blonde-version of Eddie Rabbitt). He was always drinking herbal teas whilst popping vitamins (I had no idea what either of these were at the time). Unfailingly, he had the top three buttons undone of his shirts (putting his thick, sandy blonde chest hair on full display). He definitely looked like a rockstar (in my eyes) in spite of the fact that he leaned much more '70s than '80s. (I was too young to know otherwise.) To me, he was simply Slyvester, our barber, and I felt completely comfortable in his presence since he and this shop were so familiar.
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Like many barbers, Slyvester was chatty, and because there were 5-6 barbers who shared this open-air shop, he always kept his voice low to the point of it being a murmur.
When Slyvester would bring up inappropriate topics (explicit homosexual sex scenes in studio films, finding & subsequently screening discarded gay porn VHS tapes, etc.), I'd absolutely no sense he was FIGURATIVELY grooming me. Or, perhaps, in order to simply perpetuate arousal (his own). He was so smooth and confident in how he relayed these weird tidbits of personal info to me (as if I was his confidante / best friend) that I had no idea there was really anything awry ('till much later). Plus, it was all so very new and exciting! I remember always coming away intrigued.
Hence, I can speak from personal experience. This really happened to Rob. Looking back, as a boy, I was a perfect target for being exploited in this regard due to my naivety / innocence / sense of security.
What eventually tipped me off (during my late teens) as to his abject creepiness had to do with (of all things) my pervasively thick neck hair. Slyvester began commenting on it (repeatedly) as he'd use his electric trimmers to skillfully remove the yarny mass. Taking into account how many necks he'd trimmed as a barber, it began to strike me odd that mine was as uniquely hairy as he implied. (Spotlighting Slyvester's neck hair fetish?)
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Once I moved to Starkville in 1990 (college), I eventually found a local barber (female hair stylist to be exact) and began getting my hair cut there. As such, my time with Slyvester diminished until eventually it ceased altogether. As far as I know, my father continued to patronize Slyvester's barber chair for a few years longer until one day I recall him referring to "his new barber" (at this same shop).
What's really scary to me is how vulnerable (impressionable) I was to Slyvester's somewhat frequent yet inappropriate tales / commentary (most of which were biased towards homsex).
The fact is children aren't equipped to properly adjudicate - for themselves - perpetrators / abusers. Especially when their parents entrust them to said perps. Please know that for me, it makes me angry to ruminate on this.
As such, it's the primary reason Angie and I took extra precautions whilst leaving our children in church nurseries (while we attended Sunday School / worship), and never, ever allowed them to participate in sleepovers (under any circumstances). From there, we forbade our children from "owning" smartphones 'till they were sixteen years old, and absolutely drew the line relative to their participation in social media of any ilk.
In closing, with the ubiquity of sexually explicit material online, I urge parents to be that much more vigilant. There are so many opportunities for children to be exploited, and it can happen right under parents' noses, at their schools, churches, daycares, barber shop.
Regarding my situation with this barber, it would have made all the difference if my father had asked me firsthand what Sylvester and I dialogued about regularly, and from there, had the curiosity (& interrogation skills) to drill down further relative to drawing out the harrowing details. Me being the verbose, curious boy I was, I've no doubt I would have appreciated the opportunity to confidently regurgitate what was being whispered routinely into my lowered ears.
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