THE BARBER CHAIR Should I retire? This is a question that I seriously pondered last summer. I sure as hell qualifiy for it.    Especially after thirty-two years of service.   But if I retire, then what the hell would I do with my life? I would love to just kick back and go fishing every day.  Get my boat ready, get it out on the water by 6 AM, and make it back to my home by 1 PM, just in time for a good long nap and sleep off all the beer I drank.   Another thought I've had is to start up my own talk radio program.  Hell, if ol' Rush can do it, and keep right on going in spite of all his personal problems, then I should be able to shine.   Another idea is to open up my own barber shop. My old man was a barber and a damned good one too.  When I was a young man, I used to help him out in his barber shop doing little odd jobs.  I earned some decent spare change sweeping floors and doing whatever I could do to help. This was back when the hippie era was just getting into full swing.   I swear to God, I will never forget this one particular day.  These two stinking hippie longhairs came into his shop, just to cause trouble. They were strutting around the shop, laughing up a storm, splashing on my old man's bay rum, and acting like total jerks.  They also stank of marijuana smoke. Then they started to bad mouth Richard Nixon, Sprio Agnew and the Vietnam War. Finally, one of them walked right up to my old man and blew pot smoke in his face. This was the last straw.  I grabbed these two punks by their earlobes and sent them both flying out the door with my foot.  Then I proceeded to kick their butts from one end of the parking lot to the other, with chunks of gravel flying into their  faces.  All they could do was curse at me helplessly, while retreating the entire time. What else could they do?   They were just a couple of punk ass sissy hippies. Obviously, they had never dealt with a man like me before. Needless to say, my old man never had any trouble at his shop afterwards. Those were the days.  Later on that year, the team of Nixon and Agnew were re-elected by a landslide. Life became good again, in spite of all that Watergate crap that came later. Fortunately, Ronald Reagan came along a few years later and took care of all of that other leftover hippie nonsense.  Kicked the hell out of Soviet Communism and the Cold War to boot.   Made people feel proud to be an American once again. Fast forward about thirty some years later. Last August, I spent a couple of weeks in a small town in Louisiana, where I recently bought some property, for some hunting and fishing.  One day, while I was in town, I found myself a real old-fashioned barber shop.  The same kind of barber shop my old man used to run. While I was waiting for my turn, reading through an an old tattered copy of the Police Gazette, lo and behold, this hippie longhair came prancing through the door.  I felt like I was going through a flashback. With a sense of duty, I walked up to the head barber and called him aside for a little conference: Hey look , I said.   Please let me help you out with this one.  Trust me, I know how to handle these people.  If this punk gets out of hand, you just nod your head and I'll send his ass flying out the door and a whole lot farther. I could not believe what the barber said: Sir, I beg your pardon.  That punk you speak of is my son.  He says he is tired of wearing long hair and wants to come in here for a haircut. He's going into the service next week. Is that okay with you? Speechless, I s_link_ed back down to my waiting chair until my my turn was called. Then ten minutes later, the hippie longhair was called up for his hair cut as well. Still skeptical, I still didn't believe what the barber said.  I could not believe that this long haired wild eyed hippie, with his hair right down to his ass, was going to get a decent haircut.  Give me a break. How wrong I was.  When he left the barber's chair, he had a haircut that would have made a United States Marine proud.  A real buzzcut to boot. I knew I was defeated.  When that young man emerged from his barber chair, looking like a real man for the first time in his life, I walked up to him, and with a genuine sense of humility, stuck out my hand.   Put 'er there, son.  I'm damned proud of you, I said.   When you first came in through that door, I thought you were here to cause trouble.  I was wrong. Now I realize you came in here because you decided to mend your ways and become a man. Please accept my apologies for prejudging you. No problem, man, he said, as he returned my shake with an iron grip.  I'm going to Parris Island next week for basic training.   I'm going to become a Marine, so I can get in on our war on terrorism.  God bless President Bush! When I heard this, I broke down and gave him a hug.     Semper Fi! I said. Then I walked over and apologized to his old man as well.  I called his son over and got them both into a little huddle.  With my arms wrapped around both of these fine gentleman, I said: God Bless both of you, I said.   God bless President Bush.  And God bless America! I learned a lot about myself over this incident.   Enough so that I think I will put off my retirement for just a few years more. I really believe I still have a lot to teach these young teachers who are just being flushed up these comodes that pass for the teacher training education programs we have out there in our colleges and universities today. Somebody has to set them straight.  I can't think of anyone more qualified than myself. Sometimes, I feel like that little boy who stuck his finger in the dam to keep all the water from coming through.  Fighting the flow of liberalism that gushes through the teacher education programs in our college and universities is a tough job. It's a dirty job.  It's a nasty job.  But it's a job that has to be done. Granted, if I had my druthers, I would much rather be out there fishing every day, hosting my own talk radio program, or giving buzzcuts to hippie longhairs. But duty calls.   And until the good Lord decides otherwise, I think that my principal's office is where I will continue to do the most good. The way I see it, the chair where my students sit is like a barber's chair. And whether they like it or not, they're not getting out without a serious haircut. If not literally, then figuratively.   It's my calling in life.  At least, for the next few years. Very Sincerely, Arthur Claude Munyan, Sr.