Dear Stefano and his colleagues

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Stefano Zirilli, my barber for about a dozen years, was a dear friend. Though aware that his health had been failing, I was deeply saddened by his passing on May 28 at 88 years of age.

Not merely an excellent craftsman, Stefano was a wonderful human being. Yes, a mensch. He was a standout among the barbers I have known.

The most notable barber from my youth in Los Angeles was Murray. He probably cut my hair and my twin brother’s for at least a decade. Whether or not he was Jewish, or what his last name was, remained a mystery. Murray, who sported a moustache, had two successive shops in the Brentwood neighborhood. After Theo and I entered high school, we could walk to his shop on San Vicente Boulevard.

My most vivid and shocking memory of Murray dated from grade school. One night my family went out to dinner, and there was Murray, with his wife, seated at a nearby table. He had a life beyond his shop? Much to my surprise, he even had a different wardrobe and, amazingly, ate regular food. But he was still friendly enough to smile and greet us Goodwins.

I can’t recall when Murray officially retired, but his shop no longer exists. Yet, whenever I drive by its former location, I remember his kindness.

Helmut Lenz was the next barber who made an impression. A German or Austrian immigrant, he had his own shop in the small Chicago suburb where I went to college. Wow, did he hate college kids during the late Sixties!  He imagined that everyone was a sloppy, angry or demented protester, and he dreaded seeing them in his shop.  Though I trimmed my beard and moustache, I guess that he hated me too. A schmoozer he was not.

During the mid-1970s, after finishing graduate studies and returning to Los Angeles, I needed a new barber.  My father suggested that I go see Salvatore “Sam” Stilo, his barber for perhaps two decades in Beverly Hills.

Sam, a native of Calabria, became my new “stylist.” He grew somewhat irritated with my constant questions about how often Ronald Reagan (a favored customer) dyed his hair. Sam insisted that he never even touched up the governor’s hair, but when I asked if I could drop by to see Sam working on Ronnie, Sam explained that, for security reasons, he customarily went to the governor’s house.

Soon after arriving in Providence in 1987, I asked an acquaintance to recommend a barber. He directed me to a shop near Wayland Square, but I didn’t know if it was the one owned by Fred or Ed.  So, I took a chance and went to see Fred, whose given name was Fiorentino D’Ambrosia. The son of a barber, Fred had grown up in Providence and graduated from Central High. We soon became friends, and I remained his customer until his retirement. My young son, Michael, who received his first haircut from Fred, also became a steady customer.

On more than one occasion, however, I felt I had to apologize for another customer’s behavior. Refusing to wait in a long line for Fred, this person would proclaim: “I’m a rabbi and am in a hurry; does anybody mind if I go first?” No customers objected, but this person would add, “Fred, could you put today’s bill on my tab?”

Fred quickly explained that there were no tabs. When I told Fred that he didn’t have to tolerate such nonsense, he said that he had great respect for this rabbi’s deceased father, a longtime customer and a distinguished rabbi.

Perhaps my most memorable experience relating to Fred’s shop was truly frightening. Once, when Fred went on vacation and I badly needed his services, I went to Ed’s shop on Wayland. Ed asked if I was new in town, and I explained, no, I was Fred’s customer, but he was away. Ed screamed, “Get the --- out of here.” I thought that he was joking, but he yelled at me again, so I hit the road.

Eventually my buddy, Mike Fink, suggested that I try his barber, Stefano, on Rochambeau near Hope Street. What a gentleman. He took great pride in his debonair appearance and courtly manner. I loved learning about his childhood in Sicily, and we soon talked about my own visits there. Stefano allowed me to speak a little Italian, which led inevitably to discussions about wine, olive oil and gardening. As time went on Stefano revealed that during World War II he did not have enough to eat, and that he began his full-time apprenticeship at 14 years of age. I was so grateful for Stefano’s kindness that I conducted some extensive research about his Zirilli ancestors, who had preceded him to New England.

Stefano’s customers wanted him to work forever, but his declining health finally necessitated his retirement. I then became his son, Nunzio’s, customer, and we too became friends. I also became acquainted with his younger son, Stefano, who joined the family business.

I saw the elder Stefano a few times during his retirement, and I often asked Nunzio about him. Thus, I was not shocked when Stefano passed away. Although I did not attend his funeral, I was happy to send a note to his family and shed a few private tears.

Murray, Sam, Fred and Stefano had numerous Jewish customers. They treated all their customers in a dignified and kindly manner as they too sought to be treated. Yes, despite the amount of hair remaining on one’s head or face or the waiting time required, getting a haircut was and remains a ritual – a measure of brotherhood. I wish that Helmut and Ed had thought the same.

GEORGE M. GOODWIN, of Providence, is the editor of Rhode Island Jewish Historical Notes.