My barber shop is a special place. Black and white checker tiled floors. The walls an eye-popping canary yellow. Pictures and newspaper clippings of hockey stars, winning teams and winning goals randomly scotch-taped to the walls. Black and white headshots of young guys with perfect skin and fantastically quaffed hair. Plastic Christmas decorations. A small flat screen TV duct-taped up near the ceiling so everyone can see. And hanging in the middle of it all - a dusty ceramic pink pig with tiny angelic silk wings turning ever so slightly each time the door opened.

The place was owned by Peter, a stout greek man with a twinkle in his eyes. Diane, his second in command, had to leave, just before the pandemic. She accidentally cut someone (twice). Her Alzheimer’s had gotten a lot worse. Noela is my barber. She's still there. She has a frosted hockey mullet, cowboy shirt and boots, faux Gucci glasses too. Her blue jeans cinched up too high above her hips.

The pandemic has been hard on them but the shop’s still there. Peter closed the shop, then sold it to a young guy in his 20s. A wonderful, friendly and professional guy, decked out in a black t-shirt and skateboard pants, his wallet chained to his belt. Arms and hands covered in tattoos. Noela loves him which is reason enough for me to like the guy. All the more reason to keep going back.

It was a bit of a shock for me my first time back. Though the shop name is the same, the new owner gutted the place. Painted the walls black. Removed all the memorabilia and lined the walls with mirrors in black frames. The checkerboard floors are still there, a bit of a relief. You can see the look he’s going for. Young and hip. The traditional barbershop red, blue and white out front with the dark interior, cool and intriguing as you pass by. As I sat in the chair and waited for Noela to cash out her prior customer, some of the older customers opened up and began complaining the place was too dark.

As I listened to the gripes, I wondered what mattered more - the way the place looked, or the cut. Warm shaving cream on my neck. Noela singing to me in French the same way she always does. Though the big hug she always gives me is no longer allowed. The sad thing is that with the pandemic, I couldn’t help but worry about the virus. Really worry. The close contact, the regular traffic in and out. All a lot more risky than getting a haircut at home. I kept thinking about the haircuts my sons had been giving me at home. How nice that was. How safe it is. The conversations too.

As Noela finished up, I wondered, would I go back? As much as I want to do the right thing, do my little part for the economy, I still haven’t gone back yet. I’m still undecided in my mind. It really gets me thinking too about how the pandemic deeply clarifies the true value of every business. How making even simple things like changing up the colour of the walls could be the tipping point between a business surviving and dying.

What would you do? Would you go back? What do you think will happen to Peter's little shop? Time will tell.