Joe’s barber shop. There goes the neighborhood.

We came back from our travels to Cartagena, Islas de Rosario and Havana yesterday. We were due back on Sunday. But our flight from Miami was canceled.

Why? “Bad weather in Chicago.” Bullshit. The weather was fine in Chicago.

We got home to find our house was broken into. Glass door busted. Couple of TVs and computers stolen. It isn’t very surprising given the state of the economy. Fencing TVs is one of the few job openings around these days.

It is kind of funny that when we told people we were going to Colombia I was often asked if I was worried about the crime and violence. Listen people: We could walk around Cartagena any time of the day or night and be perfectly safe. But Chicago…

I’m heading for the NEA RA on Thursday. Note to would-be robbers: The house is not empty. In fact a number of friends are visiting. And beware of the dog. Ulysses is not boarded this time. And he bites strangers. Hard.

Being on the road has meant that my usual schedule of a haircut every four weeks and a shave every two weeks has been disrupted. My beard was getting so shaggy that I was mistaken in Havana for Hemingway.

“Papa! Ha regresado.”

But being able to get seated at the Hemingway table at Floridita in Havana won’t get me very far at the RA in New Orleans. So I headed for Joe’s.

I’ve been going to Joe’s for 15 years. In that time he as gone from $10 for a shave or a clipper cut to $15 for a cut. Still $10 for a shave, even with hot towels and a straight razor. Which I love.

Joe lives in Park Ridge. In fact, his kids once went to the school where I teach. But his barber shop is on Fullerton in Logan Square. Joe has stuff for sale. Clocks, bikes, videos and god knows what else. The place once stunk of cigars, but even Joe’s is not immune to the Chicago no-smoking ban. Starting around Thanksgiving and lasting until Christmas Joe offers his home-made red wine. It is somewhere to the left of Manischewitz in taste.

If the retired cop is there, which he often is because he doesn’t have anything else to do, we argue about stuff. I usually end up telling him he’s full of shit. And he usually ends up telling me to go get screwed.

This morning I stop for my shave. “Hey, Fred. Did you see I’m in the Readers?”

Yes. Joe has made the Reader’s guide for the best haircut in Chicago. He’s become retro-hip.

“That’s terrible, Joe,” I say.

“Hey I didn’t ask for it. It’s what it says in the newspaper.”

“Now, I’ll have to wait forever for a chair.”

“Nah. I’ll get you in. And you can tell all those rug rats at school that you get your hair cut at the best barber shop in Chicago.”

“I’m telling you. Good for you, Joe. Bad for me.”