Tribute to a Storyteller

I’m mourning the loss of a great, Baltimore landmark today. DiPietro’s is closed after 50 years in business. Most of you don’t know Fred, or his barber shop, and while it’s not an official Baltimore landmark, it should be.

On any given Saturday, running errands with my husband, I might end up at Fred’s by matter of convenience, or practicality. Admittedly, though, I would sometimes come along just for the opportunity to hear him talk. A conversation with Fred immediately transported you into The Sopranos, Goodfellas, or The Godfather—take your pick.

His barber shop was an actual man cave, hollowed into the basement of an office building, at the bottom of a concrete set of steps, and resplendent with pictures of every famous Italian you could ever think of. It smelled of old leather furniture and Barbasol, and the man could put on a show. Men would file in one by one to their Saturday morning sanctuary, awaiting the familiar sign that a story was forthcoming. I would observe all of this with great curiosity, and he would usually acquiesce to having a “girl” in his shop, although some of the other men gave begrudging looks in my direction.

Fred was always eager for another fresh face to tell his stories to, and, for their part, the men were just as eager to hear them—even the more weathered faces brightened at the prospect of a good story. My father-in-law had his hair cut there for 50 years, from the time Fred’s doors opened to the very end. And even after all those years, Fred would still come up as a topic of conversation around the dinner table. His tales were something of legend.

He has a thick accent and a thicker personality. He would take his time, with the stories and the haircuts. In between each snap of the scissors, he would stop and wipe the comb across his apron, reflecting on the next line, and delivering it with all the bravado he could muster. Believe me, it was a lot of bravado.

Every time I came in, he loved sharing the story of the first time he met my husband, at the age of 1, with Kermit pinned under one arm and a head of thick, straight, blonde hair, hand-in-hand with his Dad. I remember marveling at the details Fred could string together, even with the hundreds of men who must’ve come through those doors—details that made you feel like he cared. The man is practically family, and he certainly made you feel that way.

One of his most endearing qualities was his complete inability to understand what I do for a living. He eagerly stuck my business cards right between the cash register and the butterscotch candies, and whenever I was there, every time new customers stepped in, he would tell them they needed to come see me, swiping a card from the desk and plopping it in their unsuspecting hands. All the while describing me as some kind of hybrid between a physical therapist, medical doctor, and chiropractor. Mind you, when the men figured out what I actually do for a living, they would practically crawl under the couches to get away from the insinuation that they needed to “see me”—sound familiar?

When I saw that sign tonight it was a cheap, yellow homage to a man and his work. While it fit with everything that you would see in Fred’s shop, the contrast to the heart of the man couldn’t be more evident. Fred is a guy who knows how to care about people. With a larger than life personality and a memory that defies age, he welcomed in a brotherhood of men who would crowd around his chair, week after week, awaiting the next story.

People like Fred bring a certain cadence to our lives. The experience of going to see Fred, every few months, year after year, became a part of the fabric of living for many men in Baltimore. And it’s not until something interrupts that cadence that we tend to realize how invaluable it is, and how acutely we feel that loss. I got a little choked up tonight when I read that sign. With only a handful of times spent in his shop, I still felt the impact of his life on my surrounding world.

Fred is a man who lived his calling. In his shop, he never rushed, no matter how many guys were waiting, and he always took the time to share a good story. Any guy who went to see him will tell you, you didn’t just go for the haircut, you went for the show. And when you were with Fred, you were a part of the family.

I’ll leave you to reflect on the parallels. For my part, today, I’m grateful to celebrate a storyteller. Thank you, Fred, for teaching me so much about what that means—you remembered the details that were truly important and you knew how to share them. With you, a haircut wasn’t just a haircut; it was an invitation to robust living.