The last bastion for male bonding..

In the 1970's there was a magazine by the name of "Oui". It was the brainchild of Bob Guccione, the publisher of "Penthouse". I could never understand why the two magazines were published by the same company. The only difference I could see was that the girls in Oui tended to be from France, while the girls featured in Penthouse to be from North America. It didn't really matter: All the girls made me hot,so I could have cared less where they were from.

While taking the time to actually read an issue of Oui, I came across an interview with Francis Giocabetti ( or some name similar to that). He was an Italian photographer of some merit and he was being asked about his home life. His answer:
"I have three daughters at home, and if I had my way I'd have three more. All men do is talk about hunting and fishing. It's all fucked up.I think women know more about life because they are the ones that bring life into the world".

As fate ( or luck ) would have it, I'm the father of three beautiful girls. As I grow older I ponder what the Italian photographer said: Women do have a profound sense of the aesthetic and my life is certainly richer because of it. However, this does not mean that I don't need a little time with my own gender now and again.

Before I go any further let me explain that I've tried to be a "sensitive new age guy " and so far I think I'm succeeding somewhat: When my daughters were born I took parental leave so my bride could pursue her career. I'm quite content to let my wife dictate how the house should be decorated. I do all the cooking for my family and actually enjoy it. I have grown to appreciate antiques. I let my middle daughter give me manicures. However, despite all these things, the testosterone in in my body seems to always seems to rise to the surface of my olive skin and I find myself agog with the overwhelming desire to watch two steroid juiced men strap leather to their hands and beat the shit out of one another in an organized mayhem called "UFC". Or go down to the local gun club and fire a couple of hundred rounds from a Sig Sauer 239 . 40 caliber handgun, all the while reveling in watching the spent casings fly out of the gas powered ejection port. Ah, the things that stir your humble author's animal instincts...

However, these desires are always fleeting and I am brought back to reality by the needs of my girls. I have though, allowed myself one male pleasure that satisfies my most primordial urges: My weekly trip to Gus the Barber in Toronto.

I discovered Gus ( the silver haired gentleman seen cutting hair in the picture above ) quite by accident. I had dropped my daughter off at dance and strolled down Bloor Street to kill some time. Gus's shop stood out amongst the Korean BBQ restaurants and wholesale electronic shops. The entrance way was marked with a red sign proclaiming : "GUS THE OTHER BARBER", with a Greek national soccer team flag draped over it.

The inside of Gus's shop sends a clear but subtle message: This shop is for men. Period. The walls are adorned with various soccer team flags from around the world. There are several pictures of Gus with various Toronto dignitaries including "Honest" Ed Mirvish, whose gauchely decorated "Honest Ed's" store sits directly across the street. Photos of wives, granddaughters, and girlfriends are proudly displayed in front of each chair, along with various newspaper articles dishing out kudos to Gus and his four other male barbers.

Although I've had this Saturday ritual for the past year, Gus has only cut my hair once. That is because Gus is a hot commodity not only for his hair cutting skills but the paternal advice that he regularly dispenses. He, like most Greek men his age, are only too willing to share their views about love, life family, law and order,and politics. And according to one regular patron: "Gus's advice is always good". All advice is dispensed with a subtle laugh and a sense of dignified decorum.

Gus's clientele are an interesting of mix: White collar and working man, devoted Dad and hungover player, Jew and Muslim, black and white. All sit together swapping jokes ( What's the similarity between the Toronto Maple Leafs and an escort? They both blow for $200 ) while waiting for Gus or one of his skilled counterparts.There are some days like this seems like the last bastion for male bonding.

If any "metro" guys are reading this, I should warn you: This place is not for the feint of heart. If you're expecting some woman named Rina in a body stocking to trim your cuticles, you're too far down Bloor Street. Gus's scissors are sharp, his fingers quick and deft, and he uses this blue concoction on your skin when he is done.

The Italian photographer was only partially correct. Men do talk about hunting and fishing, but at a place like Gus's, it is not always fucked up.